. 


. 

• 

*•' 
••^- 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 

HOW  TO  KNOW  HIM 

By 

GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY 

^Author  of 

America  in  Literature,  The  Torch 

Life  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe, 

etc. ,  etc. 

With  Portrait 


103 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1918 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH   &   CO. 

BOOK   MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.    Y. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    Old  New  England 1 

II    Tales  of  an  Elder  Day 40 

III  Hawthorne's  Artistic  Method 73 

IV  The  Colonial  Tradition 96 

V    The  Great  Puritan  Romance 136 

VI    The  New  Englander  Abroad 179 

VII    Conclusion 220 

Index  237 


HAWTHORNE 


HAWTHORNE 


CHAPTER    I 

OLD  NEW  ENGLAND 

WHAT  is  more  characteristic  of  old  New  Eng 
land  than  a  snow-storm?    Whittier's  "Snow- 
Bound"  is  an  epitome  of  the  old  home  life.    Emer 
son's  "Snow  Storm" — 

"Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky" — 

although  bad  meteorology,  gives  truly  the  wind- 
sculpture  of  the  day  after,  out-of-doors,  with  its 
soft  farm-contours  on  "stake,  or  tree,  or  door," 
on  "coop  or  kennel,"  in  the  brilliant  air.  They  mix 
an  exquisite  homeliness  with  the  wintry  beauty,  both 
true  to  the  soil.  Hawthorne,  in  "Snow-Flakes,"  a 
slight  sketch,  describes  the  approach  of  the  storm, 
as  mere  weather,  with  a  loving  and  minute  care  that 
makes  it  a  real  overture  to  winter.  The  scene  is 
atmospheric,  and  the  air  bites.  This  is  old  New 
England  on  a  December  day : 

"There  is  snow  in  yonder  cold  gray  sky  of  the 
morning! — and,  through  the  partially  frosted  win- 

1 


2  HAWTHORNE 

dow  panes,  I  love  to  watch  the  gradual  beginning  of 
the  storm.  A  few  feathery  flakes  are  scattered 
widely  through  the  air,  and  hover  downward  with 
uncertain  flight,  now  almost  alighting  on  the  earth, 
now  whirled  again  aloft  into  remote  regions  of  the 
atmosphere.  These  are  not  the  big  flakes,  heavy 
with  moisture,  which  melt  as  they  touch  the  ground, 
and  are  portentous  of  a  soaking  rain.  It  is  to  be,  in 
good  earnest,  a  wintry  storm.  The  two  or  three  peo 
ple  visible  on  the  sidewalks  have  an  aspect  of  endur 
ance,  a  blue-nosed,  frosty  fortitude,  which  is  evi 
dently  assumed  in  anticipation  of  a  comfortless  and 
blustering  day.  By  nightfall,  or  at  least  before  the 
sun  sheds  another  glimmering  smile  upon  us,  the 
street  and  our  little  garden  will  be  heaped  with 
mountain  snow-drifts.  The  soil,  already  frozen  for 
weeks  past,  is  prepared  to  sustain  whatever  burden 
may  be  laid  upon  it ;  and,  to  a  northern  eye,  the  land 
scape  will  lose  its  melancholy  bleakness  and  acquire 
a  beauty  of  its  own,  when  Mother  Earth,  like  her 
children,  shall  have  put  on  the  fleecy  garb  of  her 
winter's  wear.  The  cloud  spirits  are  slowly  weaving 
her  white  mantle.  As  yet,  indeed,  there  is  barely  a 
rime  like  hoarfrost  over  the  brown  surface  of  the 
street;  the  withered  grass  of  the  grass-plat  is  still 
discernible;  and  the  slated  roofs  of  the  houses  do 
but  begin  to  look  gray  instead  of  black.  All  the  snow 
that  has  yet  fallen  within  the  circumference  of  my 
view,  were  it  heaped  up  together,  would  hardly 
equal  the  hillock  of  a  grave." 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  3 

There  is  a  snow-bound  leisure  in  the  very  style! 

A  more  fixed  feature  of  ancestral  New  England, 
with  which  Hawthorne,  boy  and  man,  was  familiar, 
is  the  fishing  village  on  the  coast.  He  knew  the 
region,  also,  far  and  wide  in  the  interior,  both  by 
residence  and  random  bits  of  travel;  but  his  birth 
and  home  were  by  the  sea,  and  he  had  sea-blood 
from  his  fathers.  His  employment,  too,  in  middle 
life,  brought  him  in  close  contact  with  seafaring 
men.  The  touch  of  salt  was  not  uncommon  then,  in 
New  England  blood.  Longfellow  had  it;  and  how 
happily  the  sea  slips  like  a  tide  into  his  verse ! 

"I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free ; 
And  the  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 

And  the  magic  of  the  sea." 

Longfellow  looked  like  a  sailor,  in  cheek,  eye  and 
build.  Hawthorne,  in  the  long  tramps  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  take  by  the  rocky  ledges  of  the  shore  and 
upon  the  broad  stretches  of  shining  beach,  must 
have  felt  the  call  of  the  blood.  All  the  paraphernalia 
of  the  sea  interested  him ;  and  its  human  figures  held 
his  eye,  alike  by  their  reality  and  their  picturesque- 
ness.  Consider  this  sketch  of  the  coast  village : 

"It  was  a  small  collection  of  dwellings  that 
seemed  to  have  been  cast  up  by  the  sea,  with  the 
rockweed  and  marine  plants  that  it  vomits  after  a 


4  HAWTHORNE 

storm,  or  to  have  come  ashore  among  the  pipe  staves 
and  other  lumber  which  had  been  washed  from  the 
deck  of  an  eastern  schooner.  There  was  just  space 
for  the  narrow  and  sandy  street,  between  the  beach 
in  front  and  a  precipitous  hill  that  lifted  its  rocky 
forehead  in  the  rear,  among  a  waste  of  juniper 
bushes  and  the  wild  growth  of  a  broken  pasture. 
The  village  was  picturesque  in  the  variety  of  its  edi 
fices,  though  all  were  rude.  Here  stood  a  little  old 
hovel,  built  perhaps  of  driftwood;  there  a  row  of 
boat-houses ;  and  beyond  them  a  two-story  dwelling, 
of  dark  and  weather-beaten  aspect,  the  whole  inter 
mixed  with  one  or  two  snug  cottages,  painted  white, 
a  sufficiency  of  pigsties,  and  a  shoemaker's  shop. 
Two  grocery  stores  stood  opposite  each  other,  in 
the  center  of  the  village.  These  were  the  places  of 
resort,  at  their  idle  hours,  of  a  hardy  throng  of  fish 
ermen,  in  red  baize  shirts,  oilcloth  trousers,  and 
boots  of  brown  leather  covering  the  whole  leg;  true 
seven-league  boots,  but  fitter  to  wade  the  ocean  than 
walk  the  earth.  The  wearers  seemed  amphibious,  as 
if  they  did  but  creep  out  of  salt  water  to  sun  them 
selves;  nor  would  it  have  been  wonderful  to  see 
their  lower  limbs  covered  with  clusters  of  little  shell 
fish,  such  as  cling  to  rocks  and  old  ship  timber  over 
which  the  tide  ebbs  and  flows." 

And  hearken  to  "Uncle  Parker,"  as  he  sits  "yarn 
ing"  in  the  village  store : 

"His  figure  is  before  me  now,  enthroned  upon  a 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  5 

mackerel  barrel,  a  lean  old  man,  of  great  height,  but 
bent  with  years  and  twisted  into  an  uncouth  shape 
by  seven  broken  limbs ;  furrowed  also,  and  weather 
worn,  as  if  every  gale,  for  the  better  part  of  a  cen 
tury,  had  caught  him  somewhere  on  the  sea.  He 
looked  like  a  harbinger  of  tempest;  a  shipmate  of 
the  Flying  Dutchman.  After  innumerable  voyages 
aboard  men-of-war  and  merchant-men,  fishing 
schooners  and  chebacco  boats,  the  old  salt  had  be 
come  master  of  a  handcart,  which  he  daily  trundled 
about  the  vicinity,  and  sometimes  blew  his  fish-horn 
through  the  streets  of  Salem.  One  of  Uncle  Par 
ker's  eyes  had  been  blown  out  with  gunpowder,  and 
the  other  did  but  glimmer  in  its  socket.  Turning  it 
upward  as  he  spoke,  it  was  his  delight  to  tell  of 
cruises  against  the  French,  and  battles  with  his  own 
shipmates,  when  he  and  an  antagonist  used  to  be 
seated  astride  of  a  sailor's  chest,  each  fastened  down 
by  a  spike  nail  through  his  trousers,  and  there  to 
fight  it  out.  Sometimes  he  expatiated  on  the  deli 
cious  flavor  of  the  hagden,  a  greasy  and  goose-like 
fowl,  which  the  sailors  catch  with  hook  and  line  on 
the  Grand  Banks.  He  dwelt  with  rapture  on  an  in 
terminable  winter  at  the  Isle  of  Sables,  where  he  had 
gladdened  himself,  amid  polar  snows,  with  the  rum 
and  sugar  saved  from  the  wreck  of  a  West  India 
schooner.  And  wrath  fully  did  he  shake  his  fist,  as 
he  related  how  a  party  of  Cape  Cod  men  had  robbed 
him  and  his  companions  of  their  lawful  spoil,  and 
sailed  away  with  every  keg  of  old  Jamaica,  leaving 
him  not  a  drop  to  drown  his  sorrow.  Villains  they 


6  HAWTHORNE 

were,  and  of  that  wicked  brotherhood  who  are  said 
to  tie  lanterns  to  horses'  tails,  to  mislead  the  mariner 
along  the  dangerous  shores  of  the  Cape." 

When  it  comes  the  imaginary  narrator's  turn  to 
take  the  old  "uncle's"  place,  he  tells  of  the  marvelous 
sailors  of  a  former  age:  "If  the  young  men  boast 
their  knowledge  of  the  ledges  and  sunken  rocks,  I 
speak  of  pilots  who  knew  the  wind  by  its  scent  and 
the  wave  by  its  taste,  and  could  have  steered  blind 
fold  to  any  port  between  Boston  and  Mount  Desert, 
guided  only  by  the  rote  of  the  shore, — the  peculiar 
sound  of  the  surf  on  each  island,  beach,  and  line 
of  rocks  along  the  coast."  This  is  the  same  pen 
that,  at  a  riper  period  of  life  and  experience,  wrote 
reminiscences  of  ships'  cabins  at  Boston  and  sea- 
captains'  talk  at  Liverpool,  and  drew  those  too- 
faithful  and  yet-un forgotten  portraits  of  the  worth 
ies  of  the  Salem  Custom  House. 

Hawthorne  delighted  in  these  local  pen-drawings. 
He  was  a  born  observer;  and  this  faculty  of  minute 
observation,  with  the  attendant  power  to  reproduce 
the  scene  in  words,  was  perhaps  the  first  literary  dis 
covery  he  made  in  the  matter  of  his  talent.  He  was 
an  inveterate  journalizer.  "Keeping  a  diary"  was 
a  habit  of  old  New  England,  and,  though  Haw 
thorne  called  the  thing  a  "note-book,"  he  must  have 
produced  endless  reams  of  such  writing.  This  daily 
exercise — it  seems  to  have  been  practically  that — 
sharpened  and  fixed  his  habit  of  observation;  and, 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  7 

perhaps,  it  encouraged  an  indiscriminate  attention  to 
small  matters.  What  he  jotted  in  one  of  these  note 
books  was  apt  to  turn  up  afterward  in  a  sketch  or 
tale.  It  was  out  of  such  observation  and  annotation 
that  his  early  local  sketches  grew — scenes  of  the 
Salem  streets,  landscapes  from  a  steeple,  figures  in  a 
railway  station,  a  day  in  a  toll-house  on  the  bridge, 
and  the  like.  The  look  of  old  New  England  might 
be  almost  reconstructed  out  of  these  and  similar 
passages  in  Hawthorne's  work. 

But  it  was  not  only  the  local  aspect  of  his  imme 
diate  vicinity  that  Hawthorne  saw  and  recorded. 
Old  New  England  was  not  merely  a  winter  scene  or 
a  fishing  village,  nor  even  a  whole  county;  it  em 
braced  a  mode  of  life  scattered  over  a  wide  district. 
Hawthorne  had  summered  and  wintered  it  in  many 
parts  besides  Salem,  his  birthplace,  and  its  surround 
ing  country.  He  spent  his  boyhood  at  Sebago  Lake, 
in  Maine,  in  a  region  almost  primitive;  his  college 
days  were  passed  at  Bowdoin;  and,  later,  he  knewr 
some  sort  of  vacation  travels  that  took  him  to  New 
Hampshire,  Connecticut  and  Western  Massachu 
setts,  and  apparently  as  far  as  Niagara.  There  are 
even  whispers  of  Detroit,  as  a  far- western  terminal 
to  his  wayfaring.  Those  were  the  days  of  the  stage 
coach,  with  its  abundant  opportunity  to  see  the 
\vorld  on  a  journey,  and  not  merely  to  speed  through 
it.  There  was  a  vagabond  streak  in  Hawthorne  at 
that  age,  a  desire  to  wander,  natural  to  his  years.  It 
seems  to  have  been  rather  a  slow  fever,  it  is  true ;  it 


8  HAWTHORNE 

did  not  take  him  far,  except  in  his  mind,  perhaps; 
but  it  made  him  very  sympathetic  with  the  things  of 
"the  road."  The  nucleus  of  the  story-telling  faculty, 
from  Chaucer's  day,  has  often  been  a  pilgrimage. 
Among  Hawthorne's  early  plans  in  literature,  that 
never  worked  out,  was  one  to  weave  a  chain  of  such 
vagabond  tales  by  an  itinerant  story-teller  and  his 
companion.  Such  literary  schemes  in  his  mind  de 
rived  both  their  material  and  their  method  from  his 
little  journeys  in  rural  communities,  where  the  free 
masonry  of  the  stage-coach  and  the  tavern  prevailed. 
The  scenes  and  the  characters  of  these  excursions 
into  the  provincial  world  of  New  England,  are  often 
set  forth  in  their  raw  state  in  his  contemporary 
note-book,  minutely  and  at  length.  These  are  very 
informal  writings,  with  little  intention  in  them,  best 
described  by  their  editor  as  "the  results  of  an  early 
formed  taste  for  exercising  his  pen  upon  the  sim 
plest  objects  of  notice  that  surrounded  him."  For 
this  very  reason  they  are  almost  a  photographic  ren 
dering  of  New  England. 

The  note-books,  indeed,  are  so  continuous  and 
abundant  that  they  constitute,  taken  together,  a  mo 
tion-picture,  so  to  speak,  of  Hawthorne's  environ 
ment  from  youth  to  age.  The  scene  is  more 
crowded  with  humanity,  when  he  is  abroad  in  the 
world ;  when  he  comes  home  again,  nature  comes  to 
the  foreground.  The  diary  of  his  Concord  days, 
after  his  marriage,  illustrates  this.  It  is  a  history  of 


OLD   NEW    ENGLAND  9 

his  farm.    Its  main  interest  may  be  said  to  be  vege 
tables.    This  is  his  garden : 

"The  natural  taste  of  man  for  the  original  Adam's 
occupation  is  fast  developing  itself  in  me.  I  find  that 
I  am  a  good  deal  interested  in  our  garden,  although, 
as  it  was  planted  before  we  came  here,  I  do  not  feel 
the  same  affection  for  the  plants  that  I  should  if  the 
seed  had  been  sown  by  my  own  hands.  It  is  some 
thing  like  nursing  and  educating  another  person's 
children.  Still,  it  was  a  very  pleasant  moment  when 
I  gathered  the  first  string-beans,  which  were  the 
earliest  esculent  that  the  garden  contributed  to  our 
table.  And  I  love  to  watch  the  successive  develop 
ment  of  each  new  vegetable,  and  mark  its  daily 
growth,  which  always  affects  me  with  surprise.  It 
is  as  if  something  were  being  created  under  my  own 
inspection,  and  partly  by  my  own  aid.  One  day,  per 
chance,  I  look  at  my  bean-vines,  and  see  only  the 
green  leaves  clambering  up  the  poles;  again,  to 
morrow,  I  give  a  second  glance,  and  there  are  the 
delicate  blossoms;  and  a  third  day,  on  a  somewhat 
closer  observation,  I  discover  the  tender  young  beans, 
hiding  among  the  foliage.  Then,  each  morning,  I 
watch  the  swelling  of  the  pods  and  calculate  how 
soon  they  will  be  ready  to  yield  their  treasures.  All 
this  gives  a  pleasure  and  an  ideality,  hitherto  un- 
thought  of,  to  the  business  of  providing  sustenance 
for  my  family.  I  suppose  Adam  felt  it  in  Paradise; 


10  HAWTHORNE 

and,  of  merely  and  exclusively  earthly  enjoyments, 
there  are  few  purer  and  more  harmless  to  be  experi 
enced.  Speaking  of  beans,  by  the  way,  they  are  a 
classical  food,  and  their  culture  must  have  been  the 
occupation  of  many  ancient  sages  and  heroes.  Sum 
mer-squashes  are  a  very  pleasant  vegetable  to  be 
acquainted  with.  They  grow  in  the  forms  of  urns 
and  vases, — some  shallow,  others  deeper,  and  all 
with  a  beautifully  scalloped  edge.  Almost  any 
squash  in  our  garden  might  be  copied  by  a  sculptor, 
and  would  look  lovely  in  marble,  or  in  china;  and, 
if  I  could  afford  it,  I  would  have  exact  imitations 
of  the  real  vegetable  as  portions  of  my  dining-serv- 
ice.  They  would  be  very  appropriate  dishes  for 
holding  garden-vegetables.  Besides  the  summer- 
squashes,  we  have  the  crook-necked  winter-squash, 
which  I  always  delight  to  look  at,  when  it  turns  up 
its  big  rotundity  to  ripen  in  the  autumn  sun.  Except 
a  pumpkin,  there  is  no  vegetable  production  that  im 
parts  such  an  idea  of  warmth  and  comfort  to  the 
beholder.  Our  own  crop,  however,  does  not  prom 
ise  to  be  very  abundant ;  for  the  leaves  formed  such 
a  superfluous  shade  over  the  young  blossoms,  that 
most  of  them  dropped  off  without  producing  the 
germ  of  fruit.  Yesterday  and  to-day  I  have  cut 
off  an  immense  number  of  leaves,  and  have  thus 
given  the  remaining  blossoms  a  chance  to  profit  by 
the  air  and  sunshine;  but  the  season  is  too  far  ad 
vanced,  I  am  afraid,  for  the  squashes  to  attain  any 
great  bulk,  and  grow  yellow  in  the  sun.  We  have 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  11 

muskmelons  and  watermelons,  which  promise  to 
supply  us  with  as  many  as  we  can  eat.  After  all, 
the  greatest  interest  of  these  vegetables  does  not 
seem  to  consist  in  their  being  articles  of  food.  It 
is  rather  that  we  love  to  see  something  born  into 
the  world ;  and  when  a  great  squash  or  melon  is  pro 
duced,  it  is  a  large  and  tangible  existence,  which  the 
imagination  can  seize  hold  of  and  rejoice  in.  I  love, 
also,  to  see  my  own  works  contributing  to  the  life 
and  well-being  of  animate  nature.  It  is  pleasant  to 
have  the  bees  come  and  suck  honey  out  of  my 
squash-blossoms,  though,  when  they  have  laden 
themselves,  they  fly  away  to  some  unknown  hive, 
which  will  give  me  back  nothing  in  return  for  what 
my  garden  has  given  them.  But  there  is  much  more 
honey  in  the  world,  and  so  I  am  content.  Indian 
corn,  in  the  prime  and  glory  of  its  verdure,  is  a  very 
beautiful  vegetable,  both  considered  in  the  separate 
plant,  and  in  a  mass  in  a  broad  field,  rustling  and 
waving,  and  surging  up  and  down  in  the  breeze  and 
sunshine  of  a  summer  afternoon.  We  have  as  many 
as  fifty  hills,  I  should  think,  which  will  give  us  an 
abundant  supply.  Pray  Heaven  that  we  may  be  able 
to  eat  it  all !  for  it  is  not  pleasant  to  think  that  any 
thing  which  Nature  has  been  at  the  pains  to  produce 
should  be  thrown  away.  But  the  hens  will  be  glad 
of  our  superfluity,  and  so  will  the  pigs,  though  we 
have  neither  hens  nor  pigs  of  our  own.  But  hens  we 
must  certainly  keep.  There  is  something  very  so 
ciable  and  quiet,  and  soothing,  too,  in  their  solilo- 


12  HAWTHORNE 

quies  and  converse  among  themselves;  and,  in  an 
idle  and  half-meditative  mood,  it  is  very  pleasant  to 
watch  a  party  of  hens  picking  up  their  daily  sub 
sistence,  with  a  gallant  chanticleer  in  the  midst  of 
them.'  Milton  had  evidently  contemplated  such  a 
picture  with  delight. 

"I  find  that  I  have  not  given  a  very  complete  idea 
of  our  garden,  although  it  certainly  deserves  an 
ample  record  in  this  chronicle,  since  my  labors  in 
it  are  the  only  present  labors  of  my  life.  Besides 
what  I  have  mentioned,  we  have  cucumber-vines, 
which  to-day  yielded  us  the  first  cucumber  of  the 
season,  a  bed  of  beets,  and  another  of  carrots,  and 
another  of  parsnips  and  turnips,  none  of  which 
promise  a  very  abundant  harvest.  In  truth,  the  soil 
is  worn  out,  and,  moreover,  received  very  little 
manure  this  season.  Also,  we  have  cabbages  in 
superfluous  abundance,  inasmuch  as  we  neither  of 
us  have  the  least  affection  for  them;  and  it  would 
be  unreasonable  to  expect  Sarah,  the  cook,  to  eat 
fifty  head  of  cabbages.  Tomatoes,  too,  we  shall  have 
by  and  by.  At  our  first  arrival,  we  found  green 
peas  ready  for  gathering,  and  these,  instead  of  the 
string-beans,  were  the  first  offering  of  the  garden 
to  our  board." 

The  mild  vein  of  meditation  slipping  in  between 
the  squashes  and  the  corn,  in  this  extract,  indicates 
that  "sunthin'  in  the  pastoral  line/'  long  native  to 
the  New  England  literary  temperament,  though  it 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  13 

seldom  crops  out  in  recent  years.  Thoreau  was  its 
most  distinguished  prose  prophet;  but  it  covered  all 
our  pastures  with  a  mist  of  sentiment.  The  mood 
clung  about  persons  as  well  as  products.  There  is 
an  adjoining  passage,  in  the  diary,  about  Emerson 
and  Margaret  Fuller  in  the  summer  woods  of  Con 
cord,  near  the  Old  Manse  farm  described  above, 
which  is  a  true  Yankee  idyl.  Hawthorne  is  espe 
cially  happy  in  his  descriptions  of  the  forest  land 
scape  and  country  atmosphere  of  his  early  Concord 
days.  It  was,  indeed,  an  enchanted  region ;  the  eyes 
that  looked  on  it  had  been  touched  by  fairy  herbs. 
Thoreau  confounded  Concord  River  with  the  Nile, 
and  spoke  slightingly  of  travel  except  in  the  Maine 
woods  or  on  Cape  Cod.  Emerson,  it  must  be  owned, 
was  a  fellow  conspirator  with  him  in  this  advocacy 
of  the  parish. 

It  requires  large  minds  and  immense  vistas  to  do 
away  with  perspectives  and  proportion,  in  this  high 
Concord  way.  It  is  to  forego  the  telescope  for  the 
microscope,  as  if  minuteness  of  observation  could 
compensate  for  the  world's  horizons.  A  certain 
pettiness  creeps  inevitably  upon  the  daily  page  that 
records  the  habitual  and  the  commonplace,  no  mat 
ter  how  truthfully.  "Yesterday  I  found  two  mush 
rooms  in  the  woods,  probably  of  the  preceding 
night's  growth.  Also  I  saw  a  mosquito,  frost- 
pinched,  and  so  wretched  that  I  felt  avenged  for  all 
the  injuries  which  his  tribe  inflicted  upon  me  last 
summer,  and  so  did  not  molest  this  lone  survivor. 


14  HAWTHORNE 

...  I  found  a  maple-leaf  to-day,  yellow  all  over, 
except  its  extremest  point,  which  was  bright  scarlet. 
It  looked  as  if  a  drop  of  blood  were  hanging  from 
it."  Hawthornesque  remarks,  truly.  These  things 
belong  to  the  fecundity  of  universal  nature,  and  the 
infinitesimal  has  a  large  share  in  that.  Yet,  even  in 
trifles,  Hawthorne  never  loses  for  long  his  vivid 
literary  touch.  "A  gust  of  violets  along  a  wood- 
path," — that  is  the  whole  note;  simple,  elemental, 
like  an  eastern  drawing.  But  such  simplicity,  ap 
plied  to  a  whole  summer  and  a  countryside,  requires 
the  tolerance  of  a  strolling  mind.  His  own  spirit 
was  of  a  leisurely  make.  Small  things  easily  ab 
sorbed  his  attention;  they  illustrate  the  nicety  of 
his  senses,  and,  often,  the  wings  of  his  imagination; 
but,  though  it  may  seem  a  paradox  to  say  so,  this 
habit  of  small  thinking  points  to  an  indolence  in 
his  mentality,  as  if  it  grew  comatose  in  such  leth 
argic  surroundings  as  he  found  himself  in  from  time 
to  time. 

But  when  he  lifts  his  eyes  from  insect  life,  the 
pigsty  and  the  kitchen-garden,  how  the  winding 
Concord  River  comes  into  view,  the  grape-vine 
thickets  by  Brook  Farm,  Cow  Island  with  its  stately 
pines — "Somewhat  like  looking  among  the  pillars 
of  a  church;"  or,  to  quote  once  more  his  infinite 
panorama  of  the  countryside,  the  "American  au 
tumn"  emerges,  drenched  in  sunlight,  a  tranquil 
scene  worthy  of  his  own  romances! 


OLD   NEW   ENGLAND  15 

"I  returned  home  by  the  high-road.  On  my  right, 
separated  from  the  road  by  a  level  field,  perhaps 
fifty  yards  across,  was  a  range  of  young  forest- 
trees,  dressed  in  their  garb  of  autumnal  glory. ^  The 
sun  shone  directly  upon  them;  and  sunlight  is  like 
the  breath  of  life  to  the  pomp  of  autumn.  In  its 
absence,  one  doubts  whether  there  be  any  truth  in 
what  poets  have  told  about  the  splendor  of  an 
American  autumn;  but  when  this  charm  is  added, 
one  feels  that  the  effect  is  beyond  description.  As  I 
beheld  it  to-day,  there  was  nothing  dazzling;  it 
was  gentle  and  mild,  though  brilliant  and  diversi 
fied,  and  had  a  most  quiet  and  pensive  influence. 
And  yet  there  were  some  trees  that  seemed  really 
made  of  sunshine,  and  others  were  of  a  sunny  red, 
and  the  whole  picture  was  painted  with  but  little 
relief  of  darksome  hues, — only  a  few  evergreens. 
But  there  was  nothing  inharmonious ;  and,  on  closer 
examination,  it  appeared  that  all  the  tints  had  a  re 
lationship  among  themselves.  And  this,  I  suppose, 
is  the  reason  that,  while  nature  seems  to  scatter  them 
so  carelessly,  they  still  never  shock  the  beholder  by 
their  contrasts,  nor  disturb,  but  only  soothe.  The 
brilliant  scarlet  and  the  brilliant  yellow  are  different 
hues  of  the  maple-leaves,  and  the  first  changes  into 
the  last.  I  saw  one  maple-tree,  its  center  yellow  as 
gold,  set  in  a  framework  of  red.  The  native  poplars 
have  different  shades  of  green,  verging  towards 
yellow,  and  are  very  cheerful  in  the  sunshine.  Most 


16  HAWTHORNE 

of  the  oak-leaves  have  still  the  deep  verdure  of  sum 
mer;  but  where  a  change  has  taken  place,  it  is  into 
a  russet-red,  warm,  but  sober.  These  colors,  in 
finitely  varied  by  the  progress  which  different  trees 
have  made  in  their  decay,  constitute  almost  the 
whole  glory  of  autumnal  woods;  but  it  is  impossible 
to  conceive  how  much  is  done  with  such  scanty  ma 
terials." 

This  is  like  a  glass  of  Donatello's  golden  wine  at 
Monte  Beni. 

As  characteristic  a  scene  of  Hawthorne's  old  New 
England  is  this  sketch  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  at  no 
less  locally  famous  a  rendezvous  than  the  "Frog 
Pond"  on  Boston  Common : 

"One  of  my  chief  amusements  is  to  see  the  boys 
sail  their  miniature  vessels  on  the  Frog  Pond. 
There  is  a  great  variety  of  shipping  owned  among 
the  young  people,  and  they  appear  to  have  a  con 
siderable  knowledge  of  the  art  of  managing  vessels. 
There  is  a  full-rigged  man-of-war,  with,  I  believe, 
every  spar,  rope,  and  sail,  that  sometimes  makes  its 
appearance ;  and,  when  on  a  voyage  across  the  pond, 
it  so  identically  resembles  a  great  ship,  except  in 
size,  that  it  has  the  effect  of  a  picture.  All  its  mo 
tions, — its  tossing  up  and  down  on  the  small  waves, 
and  its  sinking  and  rising  in  a  calm  swell,  its  heeling 
to  the  breeze, — the  whole  effect,  in  short,  is  that  of 
a  real  ship  at  sea;  while,  moreover,  there  is  some- 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  17 

thing  that  kindles  the  imagination  more  than  the 
reality  would  do.  If  we  see  a  real,  great  ship,  the 
mind  grasps  and  possesses,  within  its  real  clutch, 
all  that  there  is  of  it;  while  here  the  mimic  ship  is 
the  representation  of  an  ideal  one,  and  so  gives  us  a 
more  imaginative  pleasure." 

The  lesson  as  to  the  imagination  is  significant, 
and  illustrates  the  nearness  of  Hawthorne's  medita 
tion  or  fancy  or  sentiment  to  any  object  his  eye 
noted;  reflection  seems  instantaneous  with  observa 
tion,  and  almost  to  coincide  with  it.  Neither  eye  nor 
mind  was  less  hospitable,  it  seems,  to  one  thing  than 
another. 

But  to  bring  to  an  end  these  extracts  from  many 
times  and  seasons  and  varieties  of  place,  which  show 
different  aspects  of  Hawthorne's  native  world  and 
the  kind  of  interest  he  took  in  it,  observe  the  vivid 
detail,  both  material  and  human,  of  this  Dutch  pic 
ture,  as  it  were,  of  the  old  original  Boston  hostelry, 
renowned  as  "Parker's" : 

"I  did  not  go  out  yesterday  afternoon,  but  after 
tea  I  went  to  Parker's.  The  drinking  and  smoking 
shop  is  no  bad  place  to  see  one  kind  of  life.  The 
front  apartment  is  for  drinking.  The  door  opens 
into  Court  Square,  and  is  denoted,  usually,  by  some 
choice  specimens  of  dainties  exhibited  in  the  win 
dows,  or  hanging  beside  the  door-post;  as,  for  in 
stance,  a  pair  of  canvas-back  ducks,  distinguishable 


18  HAWTHORNE 

by  their  delicately  mottled  feathers;  an  admirable 
cut  of  raw  beefsteak;  a  ham,  ready  boiled,  and  with 
curious  figures  traced  in  spices  on  its  outward  fat; 
a  half,  or  perchance  the  whole,  of  a  large  salmon, 
when  in  season;  a  bunch  of  partridges,  etc.,  etc.  A 
screen  stands  directly  before  the  door,  so  as  to  con 
ceal  the  interior  from  an  outside  barbarian.  At  the 
counter  stand,  at  almost  all  hours, — certainly  at  all 
hours  when  I  have  chanced  to  observe, — tipplers, 
either  taking  a  solitary  glass,  or  treating  all  round, 
veteran  topers,  flashy  young  men,  visitors  from  the 
country,  the  various  petty  officers  connected  with 
the  law,  whom  the  vicinity  of  the  Court-House 
brings  hither.  Chiefly,  they  drink  plain  liquors,  gin, 
brandy,  or  whiskey,  sometimes  a  Tom  and  Jerry,  a 
gin  cocktail  (which  the  bar-tender  makes  artistic 
ally,  tossing  it  in  a  large  parabola  from  one  tumbler 
to  another,  until  fit  for  drinking),  a  brandy-smash, 
and  numerous  other  concoctions.  All  this  toping 
goes  forward  with  little  or  no  apparent  exhilaration 
of  spirits;  nor  does  this  seem  to  be  the  object 
sought, — it  being  rather,  I  imagine,  to  create  a  tit- 
illation  of  the  coats  of  the  stomach  and  a  general 
sense  of  invigoration,  without  affecting  the  brain. 
Very  seldom  does  a  man  grow  wild  and  unruly. 

"The  inner  room  is  hung  round  with  pictures  and 
engravings  of  various  kinds, — a  painting  of  a  pre 
mium  ox,  a  lithograph  of  a  Turk  and  of  a  Turkish 
lady,  .  .  .  and  various  showily  engraved  tailors' 
advertisements,  and  other  shop-bills;  among  them 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  19 

all,  a  small  painting  of  a  drunken  toper,  sleeping  on 
a  bench  beside  the  grog-shop, — a  ragged,  half -hat- 
less,  bloated,  red-nosed,  jolly,  miserable-looking 
devil,  very  well  done,  and  strangely  suitable  to  the 
room  in  which  it  hangs.  Round  the  walls  are  placed 
some  half  a  dozen  marble-topped  tables,  and  a  cen 
ter-table  in  the  midst;  most  of  them  strewn  with 
theatrical  and  other  show-bills;  and  the  large  the 
ater-bills,  with  their  type  of  gigantic  solidity  and 
blackness,  hung  against  the  walls.  .  .  . 

"Pacing  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  this  grog-shop 
of  Parker's  (or  sometimes,  on  cold  and  rainy  days, 
taking  his  station  inside),  there  is  generally  to  be  ob 
served  an  elderly  ragamuffin,  in  a  dingy  and  bat 
tered  hat,  an  old  surtout,  and  a  more  than  shabby 
general  aspect;  a  thin  face  and  red  nose,  a  patch 
over  one  eye,  and  the  other  half  drowned  in  mois 
ture.  He  leans  in  a  slightly  stooping  posture  on  a 
stick,  forlorn  and  silent,  addressing  nobody,  but 
fixing  his  one  moist  eye  on  you  with  a  certain  in- 
tentness.  He  is  a  man  who  has  been  in  decent  cir 
cumstances  at  some  former  period  of  his  life,  but, 
falling  into  decay  (perhaps  by  dint  of  too  frequent 
visits  at  Parker's  bar),  he  now  haunts  about  the 
place,  as  a  ghost  haunts  the  spot  where  he  was  mur 
dered,  'to  collect  his  rents/  as  Parker  says, — that  is, 
to  catch  an  occasional  nine-pence  from  some  char 
itable  acquaintances,  or  a  glass  of  liquor  at  the  bar. 
The  word  'ragamuffin/  which  I  have  used  above, 
does  not  accurately  express  the  man,  because  there 


20  HAWTHORNE 

is  a  sort  of  shadow  or  delusion  of  respectability 
about  him,  and  a  sobriety  too,  and  a  kind  of  decency 
in  his  groggy  and  red-nosed  destitution." 

In  this  fresh  print  from  life  one  recognizes  at  a 
glance  "old  Moodie,"  of  The  Blithedale  Romance, 
on  his  native  or  adopted  heath,  the  "saloon,"  where 
he  was  wont  to  "lurk."  The  absence  of  Moodie,  at 
the  moment  when,  in  the  romance,  the  author  enters 
on  the  scene  in  search  of  him,  gives  an  opportunity 
for  a  minute  description  of  the  saloon,  which  is  an 
interesting  example  of  how  Hawthorne  reworked 
his  note-books  in  more  elaborate  composition  for  the 
press.  That  autumn  foliage,  just  spread  upon  the 
page,  is  a  vista  from  Blithedale,  and  could  not  have 
been  far  from  "Eliot's  pulpit,"  which  is  one  of  the 
high  lights  of  the  rural  landscape  in  the  story.  In 
fact,  the  whole  Blithedale  Romance  is  embedded 
in  contemporaneity  to  a  degree  not  paralleled  in  any 
other  of  Hawthorne's  works,  and  reproduces  scenes 
from  the  life  of  the  community  in  which  he  lived, 
that  startle  the  memory  by  their  vivid  truth.  Their 
veracity  is  that  of  a  crude  realism. 

Blithedale  is  set  in  the  midst  of  wood  and  pas 
ture,  and  in  the  breath  of  agricultural  toil.  Its  story 
enfolds  episodes  of  quiet  beauty  and  many  senti 
mental  delights;  but,  as  to  the  life  depicted,  one 
closes  the  pages  with  a  prevailing  sense  of  the  trivial 
am}  the  meager,  the  anaemic,  the  dingy  and  the  dull, 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  21 

It  is  intellectually  mediocre,  and  at  loose  ends ;  and, 
to  a  degree  unusual  even  in  Hawthorne's  art,  it 
grows  by  agglomeration  of  scene  and  incident  more 
than  by  inward  development.  It  shares  one  great 
advantage  of  historical  fiction,  although  it  is  not 
history,  in  that  it  is  based  on  actual  events  and 
social  characteristics  that  had  a  high  interest  at 
the  time,  and  still  retain  a  legendary  charm  of 
faded  romance;  and  the  opportunity  it  affords  for 
presenting  old  New  England  life,  though  greatly 
narrowed  by  its  reform  atmosphere,  makes  it  a  true 
chronicle  of  the  time,  of  permanent  local  value.  It 
enshrines,  as  is  well  known,  the  economic  and  spir 
itual  episode  of  Brook  Farm,  but  rather  as  a  ro 
mantic  incident  in  the  community  than  as  a  material 
fact.  Brook  Farm,  however,  is  only  the  fountain 
and  origin  of  the  story,  which  wanders  off  into 
quiet  dreary  suburban  places  and  sinks  in  mean 
surroundings. 

The  two  poles  of  interest  in  the  story  are  scenes 
from  nature  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other^, 
four  romantic  characters,  obscurely  made  out  as  re 
gards  their  relations  to  one  another,  Hollingsworth,  j 
Zenobia,  Priscilla  and  Westervelt,  wrho  move  in  the 
contemporary  New  England  environment  in  town 
and  country;  an  environment  specialized,  however, 
by  the  socialistic  reform  atmosphere  of  those  days, 
as  it  was  illustrated  at  Brook  Farm,  and  also  by 
the  "magnetic"  or  "mesmeric"  interests  of  the  hour. 


22  HAWTHORNE 

The  place  of  nature  in  the  romance  is  symbolized  by 
"Eliot's  pulpit,"  a  rock  in  the  forest,  like  a  score  of 
others  in  the  country  woods : 

"The  rock  itself  rose  some  twenty  or  thirty  feet,  a 
shattered  granite  bowlder,  or  heap  of  bowlders,  with 
an  irregular  outline  and  many  fissures,  out  of  which 
sprang  shrubs,  bushes,  and  even  trees;  as  if  the 
scanty  soil  within  those  crevices  were  sweeter  to  their 
roots  than  any  other  earth.  At  the  base  of  the  pulpit, 
the  broken  bowlders  inclined  towards  each  other,  so 
as  to  form  a  shallow  cave,  within  which  our  little 
party  had  sometimes  found  protection  from  a  sum 
mer  shower.  On  the  threshold,  or  just  across  it, 
grew  a  tuft  of  pale  columbines,  in  their  season,  and 
violets,  sad  and  shadowy  recluses,  such  as  Priscilla 
was  when  we  first  knew  her;  children  of  the  sun, 
who  had  never  seen  their  father,  but  dwelt  among 
damp  mosses,  though  not  akin  to  them.  At  the  sum 
mit,  the  rock  was  overshadowed  by  the  canopy  of  a 
birch-tree  which  served  as  a  sounding-board  for 
the  pulpit.  Beneath  this  shade  (with  my  eyes  of 
sense  half  shut,  and  those  of  the  imagination  widely 
opened)  I  used  to  see  the  holy  Apostle  of  the  Indi 
ans,  with  the  sunlight  flickering  down  upon  him 
through  the  leaves,  and  glorifying  his  figure  as  with 
the  half -perceptible  glow  of  a  transfiguration. 

"I  the  more  minutely  describe  the  rock,  and  this 
little  Sabbath  solitude,  because  Hollingsworth,  at 
our  solicitation,  often  ascended  Eliot's  pulpit,  and 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  23 

not  exactly  preached,  but  talked  to  us,  his  few  disci 
ples,  in  a  strain  that  rose  and  fell  as  naturally  as  the 
wind's  breath  among  the  leaves  of  the  birch-tree. 
No  other  speech  of  man  has  ever  moved  me  like 
some  of  those  discourses.  It  seemed  most  pitiful — 
a  positive  calamity  to  the  world — that  a  treasury 
of  golden  thoughts  should  thus  be  scattered,  by  the 
liberal  handful,  down  among  us  three,  when  a  thou 
sand  hearers  might  have  been  the  richer  for  them; 
and  Hollingsworth  the  richer,  likewise,  by  the  sym 
pathy  of  multitudes.  After  speaking  much  or  lit 
tle,  as  might  happen,  he  would  descend  from  his 
gray  pulpit,  and  generally  fling  himself  at  full 
length  on  the  ground,  face  downward.  Meanwhile, 
we  talked  around  him  on  such  topics  as  were  sug 
gested  by  the  discourse." 

The  conclusion  of  the  colloquies  at  the  base  of 
"Eliot's  pulpit"  was  staged  by  the  novelist  at  the 
village  hall,  or  "lyceum  hall,"  as  it  was  often  then 
called,  an  institution  of  those  days,  that  ranked 
with  the  "chapel"  of  an  earlier,  or  the  "forum"  of 
a  later,  time. 

"The  scene  was  one  of  those  lyceum-halls,  of 
which  almost  every  village  has  now  its  own,  dedi 
cated  to  that  sober  and  pallid,  or  rather  drab- 
colored,  mode  of  winter-evening  entertainment,  the 
lecture.  Of  late  years,  this  has  come  strangely  into 
vogue,  when  the  natural  tendency  of  things  would 


24  HAWTHORNE 

seem  to  be  to  substitute  lettered  for  oral  methods 
of  addressing  the  public.  But,  in  halls  like  this, 
besides  the  winter  course  of  lectures,  there  is  a  rich 
and  varied  series  of  other  exhibitions.  Hither  comes 
the  ventriloquist,  with  all  his  mysterious  tongues; 
the  thaumaturgist,  too,  with  his  miraculous  trans 
formations  of  plates,  doves,  and  rings,  his  pancakes 
smoking  in  your  hat,  and  his  cellar  of  choice  liquors 
represented  in  one  small  bottle.  Here,  also,  the 
itinerant  professor  instructs  separate  classes  of  la 
dies  and  gentlemen  in  physiology,  and  demonstrates 
his  lessons  by  the  aid  of  real  skeletons,  and  manikins 
in  wax,  from  Paris.  Here  is  to  be  heard  the  choir 
of  Ethiopian  melodists,  and  to  be  seen  the  diorama 
of  Moscow  or  Bunker  Hill,  or  the  moving  pano 
rama  of  the  Chinese  wall.  Here  is  displayed  the 
museum  of  wax  figures,  illustrating  the  wide  Catholi 
cism  of  earthly  renown,  by  mixing  up  heroes  and 
statesmen,  the  pope  and  the  Mormon  prophet,  kings, 
queens,  murderers,  and  beautiful  ladies;  every  sort 
of  person,  in  short,  except  authors,  of  whom  I  never 
beheld  even  the  most  famous  done  in  wax.  And 
here,  in  this  many-purposed  hall  (unless  the  select 
men  of  the  village  chance  to  have  more  than  their 
share  of  the  Puritanism,  which,  however  diversi 
fied  with  later  patchwork,  still  gives  its  prevailing 
tint  to  New  England  character),  here  the  company 
of  strolling  players  sets  up  its  little  stage,  and 
claims  patronage  for  the  legitimate  drama. 

"But,  on  the  autumnal  evening  which  I  speak  of, 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  25 

a  number  of  printed  handbills — stuck  up  in  the  bar 
room,  and  on  the  sign-post  of  the  hotel,  and  on  the 
meeting-house  porch,  and  distributed  largely  through 
the  village — had  promised  the  inhabitants  an  inter 
view  with  that  celebrated  and  hitherto  inexplicable 
phenomenon,  the  Veiled  Lady! 

"The  hall  was  fitted  up  with  an  amphitheatrical  de 
scent  of  seats  towards  a  platform,  on  which  stood  a 
desk,  two  lights,  a  stool,  and  a  capacious  antique 
chair.  The  audience  was  of  a  generally  decent  and 
respectable  character :  old  farmers,  in  their  Sunday 
black  coats,  with  shrewd,  hard,  sun-dried  faces,  and 
a  cynical  humor,  oftener  than  any  other  expression, 
in  their  eyes;  pretty  girls,  in  many-colored  attire; 
pretty  young  men, — the  schoolmaster,  the  lawyer, 
or  student  at  law,  the  shop-keeper, — all  looking 
rather  suburban  than  rural.  In  these  days,  there  is 
absolutely  no  rusticity,  except  when  the  actual  labor 
of  the  soil  leaves  its  earth-mould  on  the  person. 
There  was  likewise  a  considerable  proportion  of 
young  and  middle-aged  women,  many  of  them  stern 
in  feature,  with  marked  foreheads,  and  a  very  defi 
nite  line  of  eyebrow;  a  type  of  womanhood  in  which 
a  bold  intellectual  development  seems  to  be  keeping 
pace  with  the  progressive  delicacy  of  the  physical 
constitution.  Of  all  these  people  I  took  note,  at 
first,  according  to  my  custom.  But  I  ceased  to  do 
so  the  moment  that  my  eyes  fell  on  an  individual 
who  sat  two  or  three  seats  below  me,  immovable, 
apparently  deep  in  thought,  with  his  back,  of  course, 


26  HAWTHORNE 

towards  me,  and  his  face  turned  steadfastly  upon 
the  platform. 

"After  sitting  awhile  in  contemplation  of  this  per 
son's  familiar  contour,  I  was  irresistibly  moved  to 
step  over  the  intervening  benches,  lay  my  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  put  my  mouth  close  to  his  ear,  and 
address  him  in  a  sepulchral,  melodramatic  whis 
per : — 

"  'Hollingsworth !  where  have  you  left  Zeno- 
bia?'  .,  .  . 

"The  audience  now  began  to  be  impatient;  they 
signified  their  desire  for  the  entertainment  to  com 
mence  by  thump  of  sticks  and  stamp  of  boot-heels. 
Nor  was  it  a  great  while  longer  before,  in  response 
to  their  call,  there  appeared  a  bearded  personage  in 
Oriental  robes,  looking  like  one  of  the  enchanters 
of  the  Arabian  Nights.  He  came  upon  the  platform 
from  a  side  door,  saluted  the  spectators,  not  with  a 
salaam,  but  a  bow,  took  his  station  at  the  desk,  and 
first  blowing  his  nose  with  a  white  handkerchief, 
prepared  to  speak.  The  environment  of  the  homely 
village  hall,  and  the  absence  of  many  ingenious 
contrivances  of  stage-effect  with  which  the  exhibi 
tion  had  heretofore  been  set  off,  seemed  to  bring 
the  artifice  of  this  character  more  openly  upon  the 
surface.  No  sooner  did  I  behold  the  bearded  en 
chanter,  than,  laying  my  hand  again  on  Hollings- 
worth's  shoulder,  I  whispered  in  his  ear, — 

"  'Do  you  know  him  ?' 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  27 

"  'I  never  saw  the  man  before/  he  muttered, 
without  turning  his  head. 

"But  I  had  seen  him  three  times  already.  Once, 
on  occasion  of  my  first  visit  to  the  Veiled  Lady;  a 
second  time,  in  the  wood-path  at  Blithedale;  and 
lastly,  in  Zenobia's  drawing-room.  It  was  Wester- 
velt.  A  quick  association  of  ideas  made  me  shudder 
from  head  to  foot;  and  again,  like  an  evil  spirit, 
bringing  up  reminiscences  of  a  man's  sins,  I  whis 
pered  a  question  in  Hollingsworth's  ear, — 

"  'What  have  you  done  with  Priscilla?' 

"He  gave  a  convulsive  start,  as  if  I  had  thrust  a 
knife  into  him,  writhed  himself  round  on  his  seat, 
glared  fiercely  into  my  eyes,  but  answered  not  a 
word. 

"The  Professor  began  his  discourse,  explanatory 
of  the  psychological  phenomena,  as  he  termed  them, 
which  it  was  his  purpose  to  exhibit  to  the  spectators. 
There  remains  no  very  distinct  impression  of  it  on 
my  memory.  It  was  eloquent,  ingenious,  plausible, 
with  a  delusive  show  of  spirituality,  yet  really  im 
bued  throughout  with  a  cold  and  dead  materialism. 
I  shivered,  as  at  a  current  of  chill  air  issuing  out  of 
a  sepulchral  vault,  and  bringing  the  smell  of  cor 
ruption  along  with  it.  He  spoke  of  a  new  era  that 
was  dawning  upon  the  world;  an  era  that  would 
link  soul  to  soul,  and  the  present  life  to  what  we 
call  futurity,  with  a  closeness  that  should  finally 
convert  both  \vorlds  into  one  great,  mutually  con- 


28  HAWTHORNE 

scious  brotherhood.  He  described  (in  a  strange, 
philosophical  guise,  with  terms  of  art,  as  if  it  were 
a  matter  of  chemical  discovery)  the  agency  by 
which  this  mighty  result  was  to  be  effected;  nor 
would  it  have  surprised  me,  had  he  pretended  to 
hold  up  a  portion  of  his  universally  pervasive  fluid, 
as  he  affirmed  it  to  be,  in  a  glass  phial. 

"At  the  close  of  his  exordium,  the  Professor 
beckoned  with  his  hand, — once,  twice,  thrice, — and  a 
figure  came  gliding  upon  the  platform,  enveloped  in 
a  long  veil  of  silvery  whiteness.  It  fell  about  her 
like  the  texture  of  a  summer  cloud,  with  a  kind  of 
vagueness,  so  that  the  outline  of  the  form  beneath 
it  could  not  be  accurately  discerned.  But  the  move 
ment  of  the  Veiled  Lady  was  graceful,  free,  and 
unembarrassed,  like  that  of  a  person  accustomed  to 
be  the  spectacle  of  thousands;  or,  possibly,  a  blind 
fold  prisoner  within  the  sphere  with  which  this 
dark  earthly  magician  had  surrounded  her,  she  was 
wholly  unconscious  of  being  the  central  object  to 
all  those  straining  eyes. 

"Pliant  to  his  gesture  (which  had  even  an  obse 
quious  courtesy,  but  at  the  same  time  a  remarkable 
decisiveness),  the  figure  placed  itself  in  the  great 
chair.  Sitting  there,  in  such  visible  obscurity,  it 
was,  perhaps,  as  much  like  the  actual  presence  of  a 
disembodied  spirit  as  anything  that  stage  trickery 
could  devise.  The  hushed  breathing  of  the  spec 
tators  proved  how  high-wrought  were  their  antici 
pations  of  the  wonders  to  be  performed  through 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  29 

the  medium  of  this  incomprehensible  creature.  I, 
too,  was  in  breathless  suspense,  but  with  a  far  dif 
ferent  presentiment  of  some  strange  event  at  hand. 

"  'You  see  before  you  the  Veiled  Lady/  said  the 
bearded  Professor,  advancing  to  the  verge  of  the 
platform.  'By  the  agency  of  which  I  have  just 
spoken,  she  is  at  this  moment  in  communion  with 
the  spiritual  world.  That  silvery  veil  is,  in  one 
sense,  an  enchantment,  having  been  dipped,  as  it 
were,  and  essentially  imbued,  through  the  potency 
of  my  art,  with  the  fluid  medium  of  spirits.  Slight 
and  ethereal  as  it  seems,  the  limitations  of  time  and 
space  have  no  existence  within  its  folds.  This  hall 
— these  hundreds  of  faces,  encompassing  her  within 
so  narrow  an  amphitheatre — are  of  thinner  sub 
stance,  in  her  view,  than  the  airiest  vapor  that  the 
clouds  are  made  of.  She  beholds  the  Absolute!' 

"As  preliminary  to  other  and  far  more  wonderful 
psychological  experiments,  the  exhibitor  suggested 
that  some  of  his  auditors  should  endeavor  to  make 
the  Veiled  Lady  sensible  of  their  presence  by  such 
methods — provided  only  no  touch  were  laid  upon 
her  person — as  they  might  deem  best  adapted  to 
that  end.  Accordingly,  several  deep-lunged  country- 
fellows,  who  looked  as  if  they  might  have  blown 
the  apparition  away  with  a  breath,  ascended  the 
platform.  Mutually  encouraging  one  another,  they 
shouted  so  close  to  her  ear  that  the  veil  stirred  like 
a  wreath  of  vanishing  mist;  they  smote  upon  the 
floor  with  bludgeons;  they  perpetrated  so  hideous 


30  HAWTHORNE 

a  clamor,  that  methought  it  might  have  reached,  at 
least,  a  little  way  into  the  eternal  sphere.  Finally, 
with  the  assent  of  the  Professor,  they  laid  hold  of 
the  great  chair,  and  were  startled,  apparently,  to 
find  it  soar  upward,  as  if  lighter  than  the  air  through 
which  it  rose.  But  the  Veiled  Lady  remained 
seated  and  motionless,  with  a  composure  that  was 
hardly  less  than  awful,  because  implying  so  im 
measurable  a  distance  betwixt  her  and  these  rude 
persecutors. 

"  These  efforts  are  wholly  without  avail/  ob 
served  the  Professor,  who  had  been  looking  on  with 
an  aspect  of  serene  indifference.  'The  roar  of  a  bat 
tery  of  cannon  would  be  inaudible  to  the  Veiled 
Lady.  And  yet,  were  I  to  will  it,  sitting  in  this  very 
hall,  she  could  hear  the  desert  wind  sweeping  over 
the  sands  as  far  off  as  Arabia ;  the  icebergs  grinding 
one  against  the  other  in  the  polar  seas;  the  rustle 
of  a  leaf  in  an  East-Indian  forest;  the  lowest  whis 
pered  breath  of  the  bashfullest  maiden  in  the  world, 
uttering  the  first  confession  of  her  love.  Nor  does 
there  exist  the  moral  inducement,  apart  from  my 
own  behest,  that  could  persuade  her  to  lift  the  sil 
very  veil,  or  arise  out  of  that  chair.' 

"Greatly  to  the  Professor's  discomposure,  how 
ever,  just  as  he  spoke  these  words,  the  Veiled  Lady 
arose.  There  was  a  mysterious  tremor  that  shook 
the  magic  veil.  The  spectators,  it  may  be,  imagined 
that  she  was  about  to  take  flight  into  that  invisible 
sphere,  and  to  the  society  of  those  purely  spiritual 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  31 

beings  with  whom  they  reckoned  her  so  near  akin. 
Hollingsworth,  a  moment  ago,  had  mounted  the 
platform,  and  now  stood  gazing  at  the  figure,  with  a 
sad  intentness  that  brought  the  whole  power  of  his 
great,  stern,  yet  tender  soul  into  his  glance. 

"  'Come,'  said  he,  waving  his  hand  towards  her. 
4 You  are  safe!' 

"She  threw  off  the  veil,  and  stood  before  that 
multitude  of  people  pale,  tremulous,  shrinking,  as  if 
only  then  had  she  discovered  that  a  thousand  eyes 
were  gazing  at  her.  Poor  maiden !  How  strangely 
had  she  been  betrayed !  Blazoned  abroad  as  a  won 
der  of  the  world,  and  performing  what  were  ad 
judged  as  miracles, — in  the  faith  of  many,  a  seeress 
and  a  prophetess;  in  the  harsher  judgment  of  others, 
a  mountebank, — she  had  kept,  as  I  religiously  be 
lieve,  her  virgin  reserve  and  sanctity  of  soul  through 
out  it  all.  Within  that  encircling  veil,  though  an 
evil  hand  had  flung  it  over  her,  there  was  as  deep 
a  seclusion  as  if  this  forsaken  girl  had,  all  the  while, 
been  sitting  under  the  shadow'  of  Eliot's  pulpit,  in 
the  Blithedale  woods,  at  the  feet  of  him  who  now 
summoned  her  to  the  shelter  of  his  arms.  And  the 
true  heart-throb  of  a  woman's  affection  was  too 
powerful  for  the  jugglery  that  had  hitherto  en 
vironed  her.  She  uttered  a  shriek,  and  fled  to  Hol 
lingsworth,  like  one  escaping  from  her  deadliest 
enemy,  and  was  safe  forever." 

These  various  extracts  illustrate  the  nature  of  the 


32  HAWTHORNE 

environment  amid  which  Hawthorne  was  placed  in 
his  day  and  generation,  and  the  raw  material,  both 
physical  and  social,  upon  which  his  genius  began  to 
work.  It  does  not  seem,  at  first  sight,  to  be  a  rich 
soil  for  genius.  It  was  a  provincial  life,  set  in  natu 
ral  magic,  but,  humanly,  rather  sad-colored,  not  to 
say  drab.  That  is  the  impression  that  "Blithedale" 
gives;  and  "Blithedale"  is  all  Hawthorne's  genius 
could  make  of  the  contemporary  scene  of  New  Eng 
land  in  its  heyday  of  "reform."  To  a  certain  degree 
the  reform  element  in  the  tale  denaturalized  New 
England.  The  vegetable  garden  at  Concord  and 
the  fishing  village  are  truer  to  type,  as  are  the  vign 
ettes,  soon  to  be  noticed,  of  the  church  steeple,  the 
toll-bridge,  and  the  town  pump.  After  all,  the  town 
pump  is  the  characteristic  topic  of  Hawthorne's 
early  manner.  It  rightly  occupied,  for  a  season,  the 
center  of  his  stage.  That  was  during  the  time  of 
his  hermit-like  seclusion  in  his  chamber  at  Salem, 
waiting  for  his  hour  to  come  and  knock  at  his  door. 
Provincial  as  was  his  environment  in  those  early 
years  of  manhood,  after  he  left  college,  his  share 
in  it  was  of  the  slightest.  He  had  no  contacts,  ap 
parently,  with  life,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  except 
through  sight.  He  had  little,  if  any,  touch  of  it. 
Perhaps  this  peculiar  situation — this  social  isolation 
in  a  small  community — sharpened  his  habits  of  ob 
servation;  it  certainly  emphasized  his  brooding  pro 
pensities  ;  and  it,  doubtless,  deepened  the  dark  veins 
in  his  genius. 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  33 

It  would,  however,  be  taking  far  too  narrow  a 
view  to  seek  the  impress  of  New  England  on  Haw 
thorne's  genius  merely  in  his  description  of  the 
aspect  of  the  soil,  or  in  scenes  from  contemporary 
life,  as  he  transferred  them  direct  to  his  note-books, 
or  in  modified  forms  to  his  fiction.  He  drew  more 
deeply  from  the  springs  of  his  birthplace,  and  his 
nature  was  more  catholic  in  its  response  to  life,  more 
comprehensive  of  the  various  influences  about  him, 
with  a  greater  diversity  of  gifts,  than  has  been  indi 
cated.  He  was  distinguished  from  the  New  Eng-f 
land  group  in  general  by  being  more  of  the  common* 
human  nature,  not  so  specialized  in  culture  or  lim-; 
ited  in  taste  and  talent  as  was  the  fortune  of  one  or 
another  of  them.  Not  so  literary — not  such  a  belle- 
lettrist — as  Longfellow,  nor  so  clergy-minded  as 
Emerson — not  so  countrified  as  Thoreau,  nor  so 
homespun  as  \Vhitlier,  he  was  a  more  complete  New 
Englander  than  any  of  them,  more  fully  and  vari 
ously  representative  of  the  soil  and  the  people.  It 
has  required  time  to  make  this  apparent ;  but  as  the 
whole  period  removes  gradually,  the  very  excess, 
as  it  sometimes  seems,  of  contemporaneity  in  Haw 
thorne  stamps  him  as  the  outstanding  scribe  of  his 
age  in  its  "form  and  feature''  as  it  lived;  and  not 
merely  realistically  for  the  span  of  one  generation  or 
two,  but  he  cast  the  spirit  and  the  look  of  old  New 
England  in  literature,  as  one  might  cast  it  in  bronze, 
for  its  whole  course — our  forefathers  and  their 
land,  from  the  little  log-house  church  in  the  forest 


34  HAWTHORNE 

clearing  to  India  wharf  with  its  fleets,  "wafted  on 
some  of  their  many  courses  by  every  breeze  that 
blows." 

Prolific  in  books  as  the  later  age  is,  there  has 
been  no  better  description  of  the  New  England  land, 
—hill,  field  and  forest, — than  Hawthorne  wrote 
down,  none  so  sharply  bitten  in  and  at  the  same  time 
comprehensive  in  its  sweep,  so  true  to  atmosphere 
and  faithful  to  the  rich,  native  color  under  a  bril 
liant  sky;  and  to  the  land  he  added  the  rocky  mar 
gin  of  his  own  coast,  the  inshore  sea  with  its  myriad 
life,  and  the  solitude  that  spread  its  larger  silence 
over  the  non-human  world.  Similarly,  to  the  quiet 
but  thriving  activity  of  his  own  day  he  added  the 
backward  reach  of  history, — the  colony;  he  made 
himself  familiar  with  the  books  of  his  folk,  the 
landmarks  of  their  coming  hither  and  their  stay, 
the  superstition  that  affrighted  them  in  the  wilder 
ness,  the  freedom  that  sprang  up  on  the  new  soil, 
more  sound  and  wholesome  than  grain,  the  spirit 
of  adventure  that  sent  their  ships  through  the  world ; 
and  his  genius,  being  thus  instinct  with  the  whole 
life  of  his  people,  delighted  in  the  tale  it  told.  If 
the  story  was  crossed  with  black  humors,  they  were 
native  ones;  if  it  showed  meagerness  of  matter  and 
deprivations  of  the  spirit,  they,  too,  were  of  the^ 
soil  and  the  race.  Hawthorne  absorbed  history 
from  the  land,  as  he  had  absorbed  its  natural  look ; 
and  he  went  on  from  this  secular  understanding  or 
New  England  to  a  spiritual  understanding,  striving 


OLD   NEW   ENGLAND  35 

to  follow  its  dark  and  secret  thought.  This  was  the 
climax  of  his  genius.  His  range,  from  first  to  last, 
was  thus  broadly  inclusive. 

What  was,  perhaps,  fundamental  in  this  slow  and 
orderly  unfolding  of  Hawthorne's  genius  was  his 
brooding  temper,  his  ability  to  see  things  long  and 
repeatedly  and  to  let  them  sink  in,  to  think  'long 
thoughts,"  like  the  boy  in  Longfellow's  poem  remi 
niscent  of  his  own  youth,  and  in  general  to  be  con 
tent  with  reverie  and  dream  and  meditation  in  lieu 
of  more  active  pursuits.  Though  he  shows  little 
obvious  influence  of  the  sea  in  his  works,  except 
by  the  presence  of  such  topics  as  any  citizen  of  a 
seaport  would  naturally  take  up,  one  associates  this 
brooding  temper  with  the  sea-strain  in  his  heredity. 
He  had  sea-blood ;  and  that,  perhaps,  told  most  in  a 
certain  moodiness  and  melancholy  that  underlay  his 
genius  and  that  was,  unfortunately,  favored  and 
intensified  by  the  mode  of  his  life  after  leaving  col 
lege  and  in  the  opening  years  of  manhood.  But, 
whatever  its  cause,  meditation  came  natural  to  him, 
and  hours  of  solitary  thought  and  secret  musing, 
indoors  and  outdoors  as  well;  it  was  thus  that  his 
genius  ripened  in  lonely  places.  This  isolation  gave 
him  leisure  and  concentration,  and  he  used  them  to 
appropriate  New  England's  present  and  past,  as  they 
came  into  his  view.  The  completeness  with  which 
he  did  this  showed  in  the  high  sentiments  of  his  his 
toric  imagination  and  in  the  human  sympathy  of  his 
contemporary  observations;  but  it  was  not  in  the 


36  HAWTHORNE 

picturesque  adornment  of  his  native  history,  nor  in 
feeling  sketches  of  life  as  he  saw  it,  that  he  was 
to  paint  most  intimately  the  spirit  of  New  England. 
He  drew  near,  as  it  were  in  concentric  circles,  like 
a  bird  of  prey,  to  the  core  of  the  New  England 
mystery, — the  sense  of  evil  at  the  heart  of  life,  sin 
and  jts  ways  with  the  soul.  The  penance  of  con-  r 
science  that  follows  on  acted  sin,  like  an  inward  ' 
vengeance  slowly  spreading  outward  on  the  face  of 
things,  the  working  out  of  the  ancient  curse  on  the 
children  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  the 
transformation  wrought  in  the  innocent  by  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  such  that  it  seems  the 
very  birth  of  the  soul  itself, — these  \vere  the  topics 
that  finally  evolved  the  full  force  of  his  genius  and 
the  perfection  of  his  art.  The  common  ground  of 
all  these  was  his  Puritan  heredity;  not  that  he  set 
forth  in  his  tales  the  doctrinal  beliefs  of  the  an 
terior  age,  but  the  true  source  of  his  interest  in 
these  themes  was  in  his  blood  and  breeding;  they 
stand  relieved  against  that  antique  history,  and 
draw  their  imaginative  substance  and  spiritual 
breath  from  that  old  "orthodoxy,"  as  it  came  to  be 
called.  The  earlier  age,  Jonathan  Edwards  and  his 
virile  race  of  the  old  clergy,  had  gone  by;  now  from 
their  dark  thoughts  and  fervid  experiences  a  moral 
heredity  had  been  distilled,  a  moral  imagination  had 
been  generated,  and  Hawthorne  in  his  creations  and 
meditations  spoke  for  a  special  culture,  markedly 
religious  at  bottom,  diffused  through  his  community. 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  37 

His  creations  were  the  fruit  of  his  meditations. 
Thought  was  at  their  basis.  More  and  more,  as 
will  be  illustrated,  an  abstract  element  entered  into 
his  imagination.  It  is  in  the  quality  of  this  element 
that  his  New  Englandism  is  most  intense.  The  New 
Englanders  were  a  thinking  people,  and  both  their 
thought  about  life  and  their  experience  of  life  were 
steeped  in  the  old  "orthodoxy,"  however  much  lib 
eralism  had  made,  here  and  there,  rifts  and  pockets, 
as  it  were,  in  the  common  mass.  Hawthorne  repre 
sented  this  people,  and,  especially  in  his  major 
works,  their  spiritual  stamina  and  the  dark  air  in 
which  it  throve.  A  deeper,  but  not  unusual,  shade 
belonged  to  his  temperament,  it  may  be,  than  was 
generally  found;  there  may  be  some  question  as  to 
the  value  of  his  insights,  or  the  success,  historically, 
of  his  portrayals;  but  there  is  no  doubt  as  to  the 
place  and  character  of  his  main  interest.  That  lay 
in  the  fortune  of  the  soul  under  sin.  Again  and 
again,  in  the  small  and  in  the  large,  he  set  it  forth. 
In  this  he  most  completely  fulfilled  his  function,  not 
merely  of  describing  the  land  and  displaying  the 
chronicles  of  New  England,  but  of  being,  by  grace 
of  the  imagination,  its  true  historian. 

There  is  still  another  phase  of  his  representative 
character  in  relation  to  his  society.  The  mental 
manners  and  customs  of  New  England  at  that  day 
were  marked  and  peculiar.  The  age,  naturally,  had 
an  intellectual  cut  of  its  own,  as  wrell  as  a  moral 
and  religious  habit.  The  common  books  of  that 


38  HAWTHORNE 

time  often  seem  very  old-fashioned,  not  only  by 
their  pictures,  but  by  the  character  of  their  senti 
ments  and  their  fancies.  It  must  be  acknowledged 
that  some  of  Hawthorne's  early  writings  seem  like 
lessons  in  an  old  New  England  reader;  nor  did  his 
literary  consanguinity  with  the  times  end  there. 
The  books  of  our  fathers,  like  those  of  modern  days, 
have  their  fates;  but  if  one  is  able  to  recall,  by 
chance,  the  magazine  literature  of  that  period,  or, 
better  still,  the  annuals,  keepsakes  and  that  order  of 
compositions,  the  kind  of  blood-relationship  that  is 
here  in  mind  will  be  plain.  Jones  Very,  an  ad 
mirable  poet  of  Salem,  if  one  should  turn  his  pages, 
will  give  some  sense  of  the  moral  atmosphere  of  the 
society  with  which  Hawthorne  was  in  contact.  Best 
of  all,  perhaps,  Sylvester  Judd's  once  famous  novel 
— famous,  at  least,  in  limited  circles — Margaret, 
illustrates  the  imaginative  quality  of  the  period.  It 
is  in  Hawthorne's  pages  that  this  vein  is  found  in  its 
permanency,  a  vein  so  subtle,  so  fine,  so  tenuous,  at 
times,  that  its  presence  almost  escapes  the  senses. 
There  was  a  diaphanous  quality  in  the  New  Eng 
land  imagination  then,  a  delicacy  of  thought  and 
feeling,  native  to  that  climate,  which  found  expres 
sion  in  a  "visionary  sense."  Hawthorne  often  so 
projected  his  dream  as  reverie;  and  in  his  firmest 
creative  work  something  of  this  illusory  feeling  in 
terleaves  the  pages.  New  England  was  then  a  place 
of  imagination. 


OLD    NEW    ENGLAND  39 

In  these  various  modes  Hawthorne  gathered  into 
a  focus  of  genius  the  life  of  New  England, — its 
landscape,  its  annals,  its  superstitions  and  its  faith, 
its  fantasy  and  its  dreaming  ways. 


CHAPTER  II 

TALES  OF  AN  ELDER  DAY 

HAWTHORNE  was,  preeminently,  an  observer 
and  a  moralist;  or,  to  state  it  more  broadly 
and  justly,  he  was  both  artist  and  thinker,  and  with 
the  progress  of  life,  naturally,  the  mind  counted  for 
more  than  the  eye.  The  objects  of  observation  and 
meditation,  which  came  within  the  scope  of  his  inter 
ests  in  the  juvenile  years  of  his  literary  life  and  be 
fore  his  mind  had  concentrated  and  settled  on  its 
main  bases  of  thought  and  tendency  in  mature  man 
hood,  were  miscellaneous.  In  this  earlier  and  ex 
tremely  varied  portion  of  the  mass  of  his  writings 
his  genius  is  more  experimental  and  discursive,  with 
traits  of  youth;  but  for  that  very  reason  the  con 
tinuous  stream  of  short  tales  that  came  from  his 
pen  up  to  middle  life  discloses  more  plainly  the 
nature  of  his  mental  growth.  His  journals  show 
rich  traces  of  a  wandering  mind  as  well  as  of  a 
strolling  habit ;  they  are  studded  with  what  one  can 
only  call  "fancies," — ideas  and  suggestions  to  be 
worked  out;  and  the  miscellaneousness  of  these  is 
only  a  degree  greater  than  that  of  the  tales  them 
selves.  His  artistic  creations,  indeed,  are  the  mo 
tions  of  a  wandering  mind.  The  stories,  at  times, 

40 


TALES    OF    AN    ELDER    DAY         41 

reflect  his  interest  in  vagabondage  and  in  oddities  of 
character;  they  often  reveal  his  liking  for  the  pic 
turesque,  the  processional,  the  formal  speech  of  an 
older  fiction,  or  give  a  pageant  effect  to  the  scenes 
presented;  they  are  full  of  decorative  instinct,  of 
that  half  unconscious  artistic  feeling  for  the  beauti 
ful,  the  exquisite  and  the  subtle,  that  denotes  the 
artist  born. 

The  final  concentration  of  Hawthorne's  mind 
upon  moral  themes,  and  his  treatment  of  them  by 
symbolical  modes,  was  a  very  gradual  process  and 
seems  to  have  been  dependent  on  that  maturity 
of  the  mind  which  comes  with  time.  He  would  not 
have  been  a  New  Englander  if  he  had  not  brooded 
on  moral  phenomena.  But  besides  this  fundamental 
predisposition  of  his  intellectual  interests,  supported 
and  reinforced  by  the  temper  of  the  community 
where  he  lived,  his  artistic  attention  was  constantly 
caught  and  excited  by  any  concrete  sight  or  circum 
stance,  any  incident  or  tale  or  floating  fancy,  which 
had  a  moral  meaning  or  which  could  be  made  to 
suggest  one.  He  was  first  of  all  an  observer;  he 
was  only  secondarily  a  thinker,  given  to  meditation ; 
his  mind  worked  originally  in  surfaces,  images, 
fancies.  The  quality  of  thought  that  arises  irf 
imagination  becomes  philosophical  and  truly  medi 
tative  only  after  the  abstract  element  makes  itself 
plainly  apparent ;  in  Hawthorne's  case  this  involved 
the  transformation  of  a  physical  image  into  a  sym 
bol,  That  was  his  artistic  method  of  philosophizing. 


42  HAWTHORNE 

But  the  method  was  seldom,  if  ever,  quite  equal  to 
the  task.  The  result  is  a  continual  failure  of  the 
art  to  express  the  thought;  the  art  falls  silent;  the 
thought  ceases  to  appear.  The  natural  motion  of 
the  artist,  in  such  a  case,  is  to  fall  back  on  the 
artistic  element  in  his  work,  on  the  concrete,  the 
definite,  the  vivid,  and  so  to  lose  himself  in  material 
realities. 

Hawthorne  relinquished  slowly  the  less  imagi 
native  elements  in  his  work,  such  as  historic  and 
legendary  fact  and  the  contemporary  actualities  he 
observed  and  noted  in  his  native  city  and  its  New 
England  surroundings.  Until  the  time  of  the  novels, 
he  was,  in  his  tales,  a  thoroughly  local  New  Eng- 
lander;  nor  did  he  lose  much  of  the  flavor  of  the 
soil  in  either  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  or 
The  Blithedale  Romance,  while  The  Scarlet  Letter 
merely  removes  his  provincial  guise  and  habit 
a  few  generations.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  contempo 
rary  of  all  his  books,  and  wrote  them,  so  to  speak, 
from  his  own  generation.  He  did  not  transcend 
his  own  time  by  any  gift  of  education,  sympathy 
or  travel.  It  follows  from  this  that  he  was  sub 
stantially  a  man  of  his  parish, — one  might  say  an 
antiquary  of  his  parlsn.  The  innumerable  tales  of 
the  New  England  precinct,  present  and  past,  real 
and  fanciful,  by  farmstead  and  woodland  and  sea 
side,  of  so  many  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  attest 
how  profoundly  and  variously  he  was  sympathetic 
with  his  own  people,  their  history,  and  the  soil.  His 


TALES    OF   AN    ELDER    DAY         43 

genius,  as  it  grew  free  in  his  greater  works,  did  not 
detach  him  from  his  inheritance;  it  rather  urged 
him,  as  he  matured,  into  the  ancient  moral  channels 
of  his  folk;  but  through  all  his  development,  with 
his  growth  in  moral  depth  and  artistic  subtlety,  in 
the  knowledge  and  the  means  of  truth,  he  held 
close  to  his  New  England  nature,  breeding  and  ex 
perience.  Not  so  provincial  as  Whittier,  not  so 
"parochial"  (to  use  James's  word)  as  Thoreau,  he 
was  infinitely  less  the  cosmopolite  than  Lowell,  Irv 
ing  or  Longfellow.  The  word,  cosmopolitan,  in 
deed,  hardly  applies  to  the  Americans  of  that  age; 
as  for  Hawthorne,  he  was,  first  and  last,  the  New 
Englander. 

This  is  most  plainly  evident,  as  is  natural,  in  those 
early  writings  where  the  sense  of  locality  is  most 
marked,  the  product  of  the  duller  years  in  the  lonely 
chamber  at  Salem,  of  which  he  made  so  much  men 
tion,  in  the  time  when  he  waited  long  for  fame  to 
come  to  him.  Realism  of  the  most  obvious  and 
every-day  kind  played  a  large  part  in  his  composi 
tions;  they  were,  seemingly,  condensations  of  what 
may  have  been  his  daily  diary,  things  seen  from  his 
window  or  on  his  walks.  Commonplace^,  as  these 
slight  essays  may  have  been  in  their  day,  and  jour 
nalistic  in  the  sense  of  having  been  written  for  the 
day's  or  the  week's  reading,  and  being  often  of  the 
nature  of  small  talk  on  humble  topics,  they  have 
acquired  with  time  an  antiquarian  value,  like  diaries 
of  our  grandfathers;  they  reproduce  with  fidelity 


44  HAWTHORNE 

the  look,  the  mood,  the  concerns  of  that  quiet,  old- 
fashioned,  early  nineteenth-century  countryside,  and, 
besides,  its  intellectual  and  moral  habit. 

It  is  not  the  flow  of  life  itself,  but  the  mere  aspect 
of  things  that  is  most  recorded.  The  scene  is  usu 
ally  of  large  horizons,  of  the  day's  events,  or  of  the 
road.  There  is  an  order  of  time  in  these  descrip 
tions  of  what  goes  on  from  hour  to  hour  for  the 
eye  to  note  in  mundane  surroundings  and  happen 
ings;  but,  on  the  whole,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
the  little  essays  often  seem  chronicles  of  Lilliput. 
Spread  out  the  earth  and  go  up  into  a  steeple  to  sur 
vey  it,  and  you  gain  a  certain  unity  of  view,  a 
panoramic  sweep;  but  it  is  at  the  cost  of  nearness 
to  the  human  world.  Some  such  sense  of  distance 
from  his  kind  pervades  Hawthorne's  local  descrip 
tions.  He  found  a  solitude  about  him  wherever  he 
looked.  He  takes  his  umbrella  and  goes  out  for  a 
walk  in  the  wet  evening ;  he  sees  the  mudhole  at  the 
corner  and  the  flash  of  colored  lights  in  the  thor 
oughfare,  the  lovers  falling  into  a  puddle, — all  there 
is  to  be  seen,  in  fact,  on  a  dark  and  stormy  night; 
and  then  he  goes  back  to  be  comfortable  and  alone 
in  "the  chamber"  that  he  has  left,  this  time,  at 
least,  only  in  fancy.  Little  journeys  like  this,  he  is 
fond  of.  They  may  take  him  only  to  the  town 
pump,  or  they  may  take  him  as  far  as  Nantucket; 
or  perhaps  he  rambles  with  only  the  fancy  of  the 
bell-man's  ding-dong,  crying  the  lost,  in  his  head. 
Be  they  far  or  near,  matter  of  fact  or  matter  of 


TALES    OF   AN    ELDER    DAY         45 

fancy,  they  are  compact  of  realism, — gravestones, 
toy-shops,  the  menagerie,  sugar-plums,  organ- 
grinders,  an  endless  medley.  Now  and  then  a  scene 
as  clear-cut  and  lively  as  a  Bewick  tail-piece  occurs. 
Here  is  one,  fresh  from  Salem's  Asiatic  trade : 

"I  see  vessels  unlading  at  the  wharf,  and  precious 
merchandise  strewn  upon  the  ground,  abundantly 
as  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  that  market  whence 
no  goods  return,  and  where  there  is  no  captain  nor 
supercargo  to  render  an  account  of  sales.  Here, 
the  clerks  are  diligent  with  their  paper  and  pencils, 
and  sailors  ply  the  block  and  tackle  that  hang  over 
the  hold,  accompanying  their  toil  with  cries,  long 
drawn  and  roughly  melodious,  till  the  bales  and 
puncheons  ascend  to  upper  air.  At  a  little  distance 
a  group  of  gentlemen  are  assembled  round  the  door 
of  a  warehouse.  Grave  seniors  be  they,  and  I  would 
wager — if  it  were  safe  in  these  times  to  be  respon 
sible  for  any  one — that  the  least  eminent  among 
them  might  vie  with  old  Vicentio,  that  incomparable 
trafficker  of  Pisa.  I  can  even  select  the  wealthiest 
of  the  company.  It  is  the  elderly  personage,  in 
somewhat  rusty  black,  with  powdered  hair,  the 
superfluous  whiteness  of  which  is  visible  upon  the 
cape  of  his  coat.  His  twenty  ships  are  wafted  on 
some  of  their  many  courses  by  every  breeze  that 
blows,  and  his  name — I  will  venture  to  say,  though 
I  know  it  not — is  a  familiar  sound  among  the  far 
separated  merchants  of  Europe  and  the  Indies." 


46  HAWTHORNE 

These  vignettes  of  small  scenes  are  innumerable 
in  Hawthorne's  local  writings.  They  are  even  more 
brief,  scarcely  outline  sketches,  in  those  articles 
whose  method  of  construction  is  simply  a  tying-up 
of  infinite  detail,  such  as  the  narrative  of  the  inci 
dents  of  the  day  at  the  toll-bridge.  It  was  a 
famous  bridge  in  those  times,  the  old  Essex  bridge 
that  led  from  Salem  to  Beverly  across  the  river, 
where  a  broad  arm  of  the  sea  made  inland.  On  its 
timbers,  he  says,  the  travel  of  the  north  and  east 
continually  throbbed :  and  he  details  the  nondescript 
procession  of  the  road  from  the  first  fragrant  load 
of  hay  before  dawn  to  the  noonday  glare,  the  stop 
page  of  traffic  when  the  eastern  schooner  "sticks" 
in  the  draw,  on  till  the  gleam  of  the  island  light 
house  far  seaward  follows  the  sunset  glow.  The 
scene  is  a  picture  of  an  old  New  England  sea 
side  day. 

"Here,  in  a  substantial  family  chaise,  setting  forth 
betimes  to  take  advantage  of  the  dewy  road,  come 
a  gentleman  and  his  wife,  with  their  rosy-cheeked 
little  girl  sitting  gladsomely  between  them.  The 
bottom  of  the  chaise  is  heaped  with  multifarious 
band-boxes,  and  carpet-bags,  and  beneath  the  axle 
swings  a  leathern  trunk,  dusty  with  yesterday's 
journey.  Next  appears  a  four-wheeled  carryall, 
peopled  with  a  round  half  dozen  of  pretty  girls, 
all  drawn  by  a  single  horse,  and  driven  by  a  single 
gentleman.  Luckless  wight,  doomed,  through  a 


TALES    OF   AN    ELDER    DAY         47 

whole  summer  day,  to  be  the  butt  of  mirth  and  mis 
chief  among  the  frolicsome  maidens !  Bolt  upright 
in  a  sulky  rides  a  thin,  sour-visaged  man,  who,  as 
he  pays  his  toll,  hands  the  toll-gatherer  a  printed 
card  to  stick  upon  the  wall.  The  vinegar-faced 
traveller  proves  to  be  a  manufacturer  of  pickles. 
Now  paces  slowly  from  timber  to  timber  a  horse 
man  clad  in  black,  with  a  meditative  brow,  as  of  one 
who,  whithersoever  his  steed  might  bear  him,  would 
still  journey  through  a  mist  of  brooding  thought. 
He  is  a  country  preacher,  going  to  labor  at  a  pro 
tracted  meeting.  The  next  object  passing  town- 
ward  is  a  butcher's  cart,  canopied  with  its  arch  of 
snow-white  cotton.  Behind  comes  a  'sauceman,' 
driving  a  wagon  full  of  new  potatoes,  green  ears  of 
corn,  beets,  carrots,  turnips,  and  summer  squashes; 
and  next,  two  wrinkled,  withered,  witch-looking  old 
gossips,  in  an  antediluvian  chaise,  drawn  by  a  horse 
of  former  generations,  and  going  to  peddle  out  a 
lot  of  huckleberries.  See  there,  a  man  trundling 
a  wheelbarrow  load  of  lobsters.  And  now  a  milk 
cart  rattles  briskly  onward,  covered  with  green  can 
vas,  and  conveying  the  contributions  of  a  whole 
herd  of  cows  in  large  tin  canisters. 


"The  draw  being  lifted  to  permit  the  passage  of 
a  schooner,  laden  with  wood  from  the  eastern 
forests,  she  sticks  immovably,  right  athwart  the 
bridge!  Meanwhile,  on  both  sides  of  the  chasm, 


48  HAWTHORNE 

a  throng  of  impatient  travellers  fret  and  fume. 
Here  are  two  sailors  in  a  gig,  with  the  top  thrown 
back,  both  puffing  cigars,  and  swearing  all  sorts  of 
forecastle  oaths;  there,  in  a  smart  chaise,  a  dash 
ingly  dressed  gentleman  and  a  lady,  he  from  a 
tailor's  shopboard  and  she  from  a  milliner's  back 
room — the  aristocrats  of  a  summer  afternoon.  And 
what  are  the  haughtiest  of  us  but  the  ephemeral 
aristocrats  of  a  summer's  day?  Here  is  a  tin  ped 
lar,  whose  glittering  ware  bedazzles  all  beholders, 
like  a  travelling  meteor  or  opposition  sun;  and  on 
the  other  side  a  seller  of  spruce  beer,  which  brisk 
liquor  is  confined  in  several  dozens  of  stone  bot 
tles.  Here  comes  a  party  of  ladies  on  horseback, 
in  green  riding  habits,  and  gentleman  attendant; 
and  there  a  flock  of  sheep  for  the  market,  patter 
ing  over  the  bridge  with  a  multitudinous  clatter  of 
their  little  hoofs.  Here  a  Frenchman,  with  a  hand 
organ  on  his  shoulder;  and  there  an  itinerant  Swiss 
jeweller. 


"Far  westward  now  the  reddening  sun  throws  a 
broad  sheet  of  splendor  across  the  flood,  and  to  the 
eyes  of  distant  boatmen  gleams  brightly  among  the 
timbers  of  the  bridge.  Strollers  come  from  the 
town  to  quaff  the  freshening  breeze.  One  or  two 
let  dowrn  long  lines,  and  haul  up  flapping  flounders, 
or  dinners,  or  small  cod,  or  perhaps  an  eel.  Others, 
and  fair  girls  among  them,  with  the  flush  of  the 


TALES    OF    AN    ELDER    DAY         49 

hot  day  still  on  their  cheeks,  bend  over  the  railing 
and  watch  the  heaps  of  seaweed  floating  upward 
with  the  flowing  tide.  The  horses  now  tramp 
heavily  along  the  bridge,  and  wistfully  bethink  them 
of  their  stables.  Rest,  rest,  thou  weary  world!  for 
to-morrow's  round  of  toil  and  pleasure  will  be  as 
wearisome  as  to-day's  has  been;  yet  both  shall  bear 
thee  onward  a  day's  march  of  eternity.  Now  the 
old  toll-gatherer  looks  seaward,  and  discerns  the 
light-house  kindling  on  a  far  island,  and  the  stars, 
too,  kindling  in  the  sky,  as  if  but  a  little  way  be 
yond;  and  mingling  reveries  of  heaven  with  remem 
brances  of  earth,  the  whole  procession  of  moral 
travellers,  all  the  dusty  pilgrimage  which  he  has 
witnessed,  seems  like  a  flitting  show  of  phantoms 
for  his  thoughtful  soul  to  muse  upon." 

Through  this  busy  day  it  is  curious  to  observe 
how  Hawthorne,  just  as  in  the  wet  evening,  keeps 
the  solitude  of  the  spectator.  It  is  as  if  these  figures 
and  objects  passed  in  a  mirror.  Far  deeper  is  the 
solitude  in  which  he  plunges  himself  by  the  sea 
side.  Photographic  as  are  his  impressions  of  land 
scenes,  of  the  village  street,  the  kitchen  garden,  the 
deep  woods  at  Concord  or  the  more  open  roadside 
country,  it  is  the  sea  that  he  most  absorbs  into  his 
spirit,  and  reproduces  with  the  tones,  almost,  of 
nature  herself.  A  thousand  small  scenes  recur  to 
the  memory  familiar  with  his  deep-water  pages. 
He  does  not  tell  of  the  blue  sea  itself,  as  the 


50  HAWTHORNE 

sailor  knows  it;  he  always  views  it  from  the  land, 
as  an  ancient  poet  preferred,  and  thus  it  is  coast- 
scenery  he  describes ;  but  with  what  a  pencil  for  mi 
nutiae,  for  shadings  and  aspects !  and  with  the  frank 
ness  of  a  solitary,  of  one  who  does  not  fear  to  be 
overheard !  and  with  what  an  intimacy  with  the  ob 
ject!  His  day  by  the  seashore  gathers  up  many 
days,  no  doubt.  Did  one  ever  find,  except  in  boy 
hood,  as  many  objects  as  he  catalogues  in  one  stroll? 
To  review  briefly  his  pleasures  of  "hours  and 
hours,"  what  a  perfect  description  of  beach  birds 
is  this !  and  how  vivid  is  the  sweep  and  thunder  of 
the  chasm,  that  follows! 

"I  made  acquaintance  with  a  flock  of  beach  birds. 
These  little  citizens  of  the  sea  and  air  preceded  me 
by  about  a  stone's  throw  along  the  strand,  seeking, 
I  suppose,  for  food  upon  its  margin.  Yet,  with  a 
philosophy  which  mankind  would  do  well  to  imitate, 
they  drew  a  continual  pleasure  from  their  toil  for 
a  subsistence.  The  sea  was  each  little  bird's  great 
playmate.  They  chased  it  downward  as  it  swept 
back,  and  again  ran  up  swiftly  before  the  impending 
wave,  which  sometimes  overtook  them  and  bore 
them  off  their  feet.  But  they  floated  as  lightly  as 
one  of  their  own  feathers  on  the  breaking  crest.  In 
their  airy  flutterings  they  seemed  to  rest  on  the 
evanescent  spray.  Their  images — long-legged  little 
figures,  with  gray  backs  and  snowy  bosoms — were 
seen  as  distinctly  as  the  realities  in  the  mirror  of  the 


TALES    OF   AN    ELDER   DAY         51 

glistening  strand.  As  I  advanced  they  flew  a  score 
or  two  of  yards,  and,  again  alighting,  recommenced 
their  dalliance  with  the  surf  wave;  and  thus  they 
bore  me  company  along  the  beach,  the  types  of 
pleasant  fantasies-,  till,  at  its  extremity,  they  took 
wing  over  the  ocean  and  were  gone. 


"Here  is  a  narrow  avenue,  which  might  seem  to 
have  been  hewn  through  the  very  heart  of  an  enor 
mous  crag,  affording  passage  for  the  rising  sea  to 
thunder  back  and  forth,  filling  it  with  tumultuous 
foam,  and  then  leaving  its  floor  of  black  pebbles 
bare  and  glistening.  In  this  chasm  there  was  once 
an  intersecting  vein  of  softer  stone,  which  the  waves 
have  gnawed  away  piecemeal,  while  the  granite 
walls  remain  entire  on  either  side.  How  sharply, 
and  with  what  harsh  clamor,  does  the  sea  rake  back 
the  pebbles,  as  it  momentarily  withdraws  into  its 
own  depths!  At  intervals  the  floor  of  the  chasm 
is  left  nearly  dry;  but  anon,  at  the  outlet,  two  or 
three  great  waves  are  seen  struggling  to  get  in  at 
once;  two  hit  the  walls  athwart,  while  one  rushes 
straight  through,  and  all  three  thunder  as  if  with 
rage  and  triumph.  They  heap  the  chasm  with  a 
snow-drift  of  foam  and  spray.  While  watching  this 
scene,  I  can  never  rid  myself  of  the  idea  that  a 
monster,  endowed  with  life  and  fierce  energy,  is 
striving  to  burst  his  way  through  the  narrow  pass. 
And  what  a  contrast,  to  look  through  the  stormy 


52  HAWTHORNE 

chasm,  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  calm  bright  sea 
beyond!" 

Does  it  seem  a  mere  waste  of  time  to  watch  beach 
birds  and  great  rollers,  like  this?  As  Hawthorne 
himself  says  on  the  next  page, — "child's  play  be 
comes  magnificent  on  so  grand  a  scale."  Let  us 
write  our  names  on  the  sand  then ! 

"Draw  the  letters  gigantic,  so  that  two  strides 
may  barely  measure  them,  and  three  for  the  long 
strokes!  Cut  deep  that  the  record  may  be  perma 
nent!  Statesmen  and  warriors  and  poets  have 
spent  their  strength  in  no  better  cause  than  this. 
Is  it  accomplished?  Return  then  in  an  hour  or  two 
and  seek  for  this  mighty  record  of  a  name.  The 
sea  will  have  swept  over  it,  even  as  time  rolls  its 
effacing  waves  over  the  names  of  statesmen  and 
warriors  and  poets.  Hark,  the  surf  wave  laughs 
at  you !" 

But  one  can  not  follow  the  solitary  through  the 
infinite  riches  of  his  idleness.  Even  here  a  boat 
on  the  sea  seems  neighborly,  or  distant  children 
playing  on  the  sand;  but,  as  man  comes  nigh,  he 
flees  to  a  deeper  retreat,  a  recess  so  characteristic 
of  his  rocks,  so  intimate  with  his  spirit  in  early  man 
hood,  that  the  passage  may  well  seem  a  chronicle  of 
autobiography : 

f'It  is  pleasant  to  gaze  down  from  some  higfy 


TALES    OF    AN    ELDER   DAY         53 

crag  and  watch  a  group  of  children  gathering  peb 
bles  and  pearly  shell,  and  playing  with  the  surf, 
as  with  old  Ocean's  hoary  beard.  Nor  does  it  in 
fringe  upon  my  seclusion  to  see  yonder  boat  at 
anchor  off  the  shore,  swinging  dreamily  to  and  fro, 
and  rising  and  sinking  with  the  alternate  swell; 
while  the  crew — four  gentlemen,  in  roundabout 
jackets — are  busy  with  their  fishing-lines.  But, 
with  an  inward  antipathy  and  a  headlong  flight,  do 
I  eschew  the  presence  of  any  meditative  stroller 
like  myself,  known  by  his  pilgrim  staff,  his  saunter 
ing  step,  his  shy  demeanor,  his  observant  yet  ab 
stracted  eye.  From  such  a  man,  as  if  another  self 
had  scared  me,  I  scramble  hastily  over  the  rocks, 
and  take  refuge  in  a  nook  which  many  a  secret 
hour  has  given  me  a  right  to  call  my  own.  I  would 
do  battle  for  it  even  with  the  churl  that  should  pro 
duce  the  title  deeds.  Have  not  my  musings  melted 
into  its  rocky  walls  and  sandy  floor,  and  made  them 
a  portion  of  myself? 

"It  is  a  recess  in  the  line  of  cliffs,  walled  round  by 
a  rough,  high  precipice,  which  almost  encircles  and 
shuts  in  a  little  space  of  sand.  In  front,  the  sea 
appears  as  between  the  pillars  of  a  portal.  In  the 
rear,  the  precipice  is  broken  and  intermixed  with 
earth,  which  gives  nourishment  not  only  to  clinging 
and  twining  shrubs,  but  to  trees,  that  gripe  the  rock 
with  their  naked  roots,  and  seem  to  struggle  hard 
for  footing  and  for  soil  enough  to  live  upon.  These 
are  fir-trees;  but  oaks  hang  their  heavy  branches 


54  HAWTHORNE 

from  above,  and  throw  down  acorns  on  the  beach, 
and  shed  their  withering  foliage  upon  the  waves. 
At  this  autumnal  season  the  precipice  is  decked  with 
variegated  splendor;  trailing  wreaths  of  scarlet 
flaunt  from  the  summit  downward;  tufts  of  yellow- 
flowering  shrubs,  and  rose-bushes,  with  their  red 
dened  leaves  and  glossy  seed  berries,  sprout  from 
each  crevice;  at  every  glance,  I  detect  some  new 
light  or  shade  of  beauty,  all  contrasting  with  the 
stern,  gray  rock.  A  rill  of  water  trickles  down  the 
cliff  and  fills  a  little  cistern  near  the  base.  I  drain 
it  at  a  draught,  and  find  it  fresh  and  pure.  This 
recess  shall  be  my  dining  hall.  And  what  the  feast? 
A  few  biscuits  made  savory  by  soaking  them  in  sea- 
water,  a  tuft  of  samphire  gathered  from  the  beach, 
and  an  apple  for  the  dessert.  By  this  time  the  little 
rill  has  filled  its  reservoir  again;  and,  as  I  quaff  it, 
I  thank  God  more  heartily  than  for  a  civic  banquet, 
that  He  gives  me  the  healthful  appetite  to  make  a 
feast  of  bread  and  water. 

"Dinner  being  over,  I  throw  myself  at  length 
upon  the  sand,  and,  basking  in  the  sunshine,  let  my 
mind  disport  itself  at  will.  The  walls  of  this  my 
hermitage  have  no  tongue  to  tell  my  follies,  though 
I  sometimes  fancy  that  they  have  ears  to  hear  them, 
and  a  soul  to  sympathize.  There  is  a  magic  in  this 
spot.  Dreams  haunt  its  precincts  and  flit  around 
me  in  broad  sunlight,  nor  require  that  sleep  shall 
blindfold  me  to  real  objects  ere  these  be  visible. 
Here  can  I  frame  a  story  of  two  lovers,  and  make 


TALES    OF    AN    ELDER    DAY         55 

their  shadows  live  before  me  and  be  mirrored  in  the 
tranquil  water,  as  they  tread  along  the  sand,  leaving 
no  footprints.  Here,  should  I  will  it,  I  can  summon 
up  a  single  shade,  and  be  myself  her  lover.  Yes, 
dreamer, — but  your  lonely  heart  will  be  the  colder 
for  such  fancies.  Sometimes,  too,  the  Past  comes 
back  and  finds  me  here,  and  in  her  train  come  faces 
which  were  gladsome  when  I  knew  them,  yet  seem 
not  gladsome  now.  Would  that  my  hiding-place 
were  lonelier,  so  that  the  past  might  not  find  me! 
Get  ye  all  gone,  old  friends,  and  let  me  listen  to  the 
murmur  of  the  sea, — a  melancholy  voice,  but  less 
sad  than  yours.  Of  what  mysteries  is  it  telling? 
Of  sunken  ships  and  whereabouts  they  lie?  Of 
islands  afar  and  undiscovered,  whose  tawny  chil 
dren  are  unconscious  of  other  islands  and  of  con 
tinents,  and  deem  the  stars  of  heaven  their  nearest 
neighbors?  Nothing  of  all  this.  \Yhat  then?  Has 
it  talked  for  so  many  ages  and  meant  nothing  all 
the  while  ?  No ;  for  those  ages  find  utterance  in  the 
sea's  unchanging  voice,  and  warn  the  listener  to 
withdraw  his  interest  from  mortal  vicissitudes,  and 
let  the  infinite  idea  of  eternity  pervade  his  soul. 
This  is  wisdom." 

A  vein  of  moralizing,  it  will  be  observed,  slightly 
colors  even  the  least  of  these  wayside  discourses, 
and  variegates  them  like  the  sea-rocks  so  often 
under  his  feet.  Now  it  is  a  streak  of  yellow  or  pink 
that  steals  on  the  drab  and  the  gray, — some  jocu- 


56  HAWTHORNE 

larity  about  girls'  dresses,  or  a  bit  of  old-fashioned 
sentiment;  now  it  is  of  a  soberer  hue,  shadows  of 
mortality  on  the  page;  and  not  seldom  it  is  black  as 
the  ebon  rifts  in  the  native  granite  of  the  sea  cliffs, 
— the  solid  gloom  of  the  ancient  time.  Though  one 
accepts  melancholy  as  an  inseparable  part  of  Haw 
thorne's  genius,  one  wonders,  at  times,  at  his  grave 
yard  fancies.  Apart,  however,  from  the  tomb, 
itself,  which  was  prolific  of  thought  and  fancy,  as 
well  as  of  ghosts,  in  the  age  when  he  was  born,  there 
is  an  infusion  of  morality  in  his  writings,  more 
nearly  akin  to  the  sermonizing  of  the  period  than  to 
its  sepulchral  sentiment.  Those  were  days  when  the 
coarser  terrors  of  life  were  vividly  painted,  in  the 
interest  of  reform;  but  the  terrors  of  thought, 
though  they  did  not  reach  the  ghastliness  of  the 
former  age,  were  by  no  means  forgotten,  and  came 
not  far  behind.  The  troop  of  sorrows  that  Gray, 
the  poet  of  the  country  graveyard,  was  accustomed 
to  marshal,  still  came  at  the  literary  call.  They  ap 
peared  in  full  costume  when  Hawthorne  waved  his 
wand,  as,  for  example,  in  that  description  of  a  wake 
ful  night  which  he  calls  "The  Haunted  Mind."  The 
passage,  though  interesting  for  its  New  England 
phantasms,  appeals  most  directly  to  the  reader  for 
the  authentic  view  of  the  famous  "chamber,"  with 
which  it  begins  and  ends,  as  with  a  snap-shot 
photograph : 

"You  peep  through  the  half -drawn  window  cur- 


TALES    OF   AN    ELDER   DAY         57 

tain,  and  observe  that  the  glass  is  ornamented  with 
fanciful  devices  in  frostwork,  and  that  each  pane 
presents  something  like  a  frozen  dream.  There  will 
be  time  enough  to  trace  out  the  analogy  while  wait 
ing  the  summons  to  breakfast.  Seen  through  the 
clear  portion  of  the  glass,  where  the  silvery  moun 
tain  peaks  of  the  frost  scenery  do  not  ascend,  the 
most  conspicuous  object  is  the  steeple;  the  white 
spire  of  which  directs  you  to  the  wintry  lustre  of 
the  firmament.  You  may  almost  distinguish  the 
figures  on  the  clock  that  has  just  told  the  hour. 
Such  a  frosty  sky,  and  the  snow-covered  roofs,  and 
the  long  vista  of  the  frozen  street,  all  white,  and 
the  distant  water  hardened  into  rock,  might  make 
you  shiver,  even  under  four  blankets  and  a  woolen 
comforter.  Yet  look  at  that  one  glorious  star!  Its 
beams  are  distinguishable  from  all  the  rest,  and 
actually  cast  the  shadow  of  the  casement  on  the 
bed,  with  a  radiance  of  deeper  hue  than  moonlight, 
though  not  so  accurate  an  outline." 

Now,  the  graveyard ! 

"You  think  how  the  dead  are  lying  in  their  co-Id 
shrouds  and  narrow  coffins,  through  the  drear  win 
ter  of  the  grave,  and  cannot  persuade  your  fancy 
that  they  neither  shrink  nor  shiver,  when  the  snow 
is  drifting  over  their  little  hillocks,  and  the  bitter 
blast  howls  against  the  door  of  the  tomb.  That 
gloomy  thought  will  collect  a  gloomy  multitude,  and 
throw  its  complexion  over  your  wakeful  hour," 


58  HAWTHORNE 

And  now,  the  family  of  sighs ! 

"In  the  depths  of  every  heart  there  is  a  tomb  and 
a  dungeon,  though  the  lights,  the  music,  and  revelry 
above  may  cause  us  to  forget  their  existence,  and  the 
buried  ones,  or  prisoners,  whom  they  hide.  But 
sometimes,  and  oftenest  at  midnight,  these  dark  re 
ceptacles  are  flung  wide  open.  In  an  hour  like  this, 
when  the  mind  has  a  passive  sensibility,  but  no 
active  strength;  when  the  imagination  is  a  mirror, 
imparting  vividness  to  all  ideas,  without  the  power 
of  selecting  or  controlling  them;  then  pray  that  your 
griefs  may  slumber,  and  the  brotherhood  of  remorse 
not  break  their  chain.  It  is  too  late!  A  funeral 
train  comes  gliding  by  your  bed,  in  which  Passion 
and  Feeling  assume  bodily  shape,  and  things  of  the 
mind  become  dim  spectres  to  the  eye.  There  is 
your  earliest  Sorrow,  a  pale  young  mourner,  wear 
ing  a  sister's  likeness  to  first  love,  sadly  beautiful, 
with  a  hallowed  sweetness  in  her  melancholy  fea 
tures,  and  grace  in  the  flow  of  her  sable  robe.  Next 
appears  a  shade  of  ruined  loveliness,  with  dust 
among  her  golden  hair,  and  her  bright  garments 
all  faded  and  defaced,  stealing  from  your  glance 
with  drooping  head,  as  fearful  of  reproach;  she 
was  your  fondest  Hope,  but  a  delusive  one;  so  call 
her  Disappointment  now.  A  sterner  form  succeeds, 
with  a  brow  of  wrinkles,  a  look  and  gesture  of  iron 
authority;  there  is  no  name  for  him  unless  it  be 
Fatality,  an  emblem  of  the  evil  influence  that  rules 


TALES    OF    AN    ELDER    DAY         59 

your  fortunes;  a  demon  to  whom  you  subjected 
yourself  by  some  error  at  the  outset  of  life,  and 
were  bound  his  slave  forever,  by  once  obeying  him. 
See!  those  fiendish  lineaments  graven  on  the  dark 
ness,  the  writhed  lip  of  scorn,  the  mockery  of  that 
living  eye,  the  pointed  finger,  touching  the  sore 
place  in  your  heart !  Do  you  remember  any  act  of 
enormous  folly  at  which  you  would  blush,  even  in 
the  remotest  cavern  of  the  earth?  Then  recognize 
your  Shame. 

"Pass,  wretched  band !  Well  for  the  wakeful  one, 
if,  riotously  miserable,  a  fiercer  tribe  do  not  sur 
round  him,  the  devils  of  a  guilty  heart,  that  holds 
its  hell  within  itself.  What  if  Remorse  should  as 
sume  the  features  of  an  injured  friend?  What  if 
the  fiend  should  come  in  woman's  garments,  with 
a  pale  beauty  amid  sin  and  desolation,  and  lie  down 
by  your  side  ?  What  if  he  should  stand  at  your  bed's 
foot,  in  the  likeness  of  a  corpse,  with  a  bloody  stain 
upon  the  shroud?  Sufficient,  without  such  guilt,  is 
this  nightmare  of  the  soul;  this  heavy,  heavy  sink 
ing  of  the  spirits ;  this  wintry  gloom  about  the  heart; 
this  indistinct  horror  of  the  mind,  blending  itself 
with  the  darkness  of  the  chamber." 

And  now,  once  more,  the  chamber  where  "fame 
was  won !" 

"The  slumbering  embers  on  the  hearth  send  forth 
a  gleam  which  palely  illuminates  the  whole  outer 


60  HAWTHORNE 

room,  and  flickers  through  the  door  of  the  bed 
chamber,  but  cannot  quite  dispel  its  obscurity.  Your 
eye  searches  for  whatever  may  remind  you  of  the 
living  world.  With  eager  minuteness  you  take  note 
of  the  table  near  the  fireplace,  the  book  with  an 
ivory  knife  between  its  leaves,  the  unfolded  letter, 
the  hat,  and  the  fallen  glove.  Soon  the  flame  van 
ishes,  and  with  it  the  whole  scene  is  gone,  though 
its  image  remains  an  instant  in  your  mind's  eye, 
when  darkness  has  swallowed  the  reality." 

The  darker  shades  of  thought  that  occasionally 
fall  on  Hawthorne's  reflective  page  are  obvious 
here,  and  they  sufficiently  illustrate  the  diffusion 
through  his  earlier  pieces  of  the  Puritan  heredity 
which  he  shared  with  the  community,  and  which  in 
his  later  years  concentrated  his  meditative  art  on 
the  touch  and  presence  of  evil  in  the  soul.  Equally 
temperamental  in  himself,  and  also  of  the  times, 
was  the  delicacy  of  his  spirit  in  creative  work;  the 
fragility — what  may  better  be  styled  the  insubstanti- 
ality — of  his  imaginative  figures,  the  dreamlike  at 
mosphere,  the  air  of  reverie,  the  omnipresence  of 
fancy,  are  partly  individualistic,  especially  in  their 
degree,  but  they  also  have  the  "form  and  pressure" 
of  the  age;  the  airy  phantasm  was  as  frequent  with 
him  as  the  distempered  dream.  There  is  a  striking 
contrast  between  the  solid  characters,  shown  with 
firm  motion  in  the  colonial  tales — Puritans  like 
Scott's  Presbyterians — and  this  frailer  breed  of  a 


TALES    OF   AN    ELDER    DAY         61 

later  generation,  both  of  life  and  literature.  It  is 
evident  that,  in  his  early  years,  the  touch  of  history 
was  to  Hawthorne  like  the  touch  of  earth  to  Antaeus 
of  old;  it  gave  him  life.  In  the  first  essays  of  his 
unassisted  imagination,  there  was  some  uncertainty; 
his  achievement  was  apt  to  be  rather  a  vision  than 
an  illusion  of  reality.  One  should  not  press  the  point 
too  much.  The  fashion  of  literature,  like  other 
fashions,  passes  away.  It  may  be  only  a  change  of 
taste  that  is  involved.  The  essential  matter  is  to 
realize  that  Hawthorne  was  a  man  of  his  own  time 
in  his  moods  of  imagination  as  well  as  in  his  dark 
Puritan  humors. 

This  environment,  the  outward  aspect  of  which 
has  been  fully  illustrated,  he  reacted  from  by  an 
extraordinary  isolation;  it  thre\v  him  back  sharply 
on  his  literary  heredity  for  the  nurture  of  his  talents. 
He  was  a  constant  reader  in  those  Salem  years,  and 
it  naturally  followed  that  the  eighteenth  century 
claimed  him  as  a  belated,  that  is,  a  colonial,  child, 
and  the  early  nineteenth  impressed  contemporary 
traces  upon  him.  From  the  former  he  had  that 
pellucid  style,  whose  American  flow  began  with 
Washington  Irving  and  ceased  with  his  own  pen, 
and,  to  mention  a  detail,  that  mood  of  the  grave 
yard,  already  noted,  which,  though  deeply  rooted 
in  the  Puritan  temperament,  had  its  literary  memo 
rial  in  Gray's  "Elegy"  and  left  its  great  American 
boulder  in  "Thanatopsis" ;  and  he  was  allied  to  his 
own  generation,  it  must  be  owned,  by  an  occasional 


62  HAWTHORNE 

touch  of  sentimentality.  Scott  early  taught  him 
how  to  stage  the  theatrical  tableau  in  an  episode. 
Such  marks  of  literary  ancestry  and  of  his  time  are 
easily  to  be  discerned,  as  his  work  grows  under  his 
hand  and  year  succeeds  to  year;  and  they  are  to  be 
ascribed,  in  the  main,  to  his  studies,  his  readings, 
which  occupied  his  mind  more  than  "sights  from  a 
Steeple"  or  walks  by  Marblehead  rocks, — more, 
perhaps,  than  the  "thousands  upon  thousands  of 
visions"  that  he  says  he  saw  in  his  lonely  chamber. 
A  genius  is,  in  part,  the  product  of  a  thousand 
subtleties, — literary  breeding,  social  environment, 
humanity  pressing  upon  it  in  many  ways;  Haw 
thorne,  in  all  his  isolation,  was  not  exempt  from 
this  moulding;  but  in  its  essence  genius  is  original 
power,  and  obeys  its  own  instincts. 

Hawthorne's  life  in  early  manhood  was  thus  un 
commonly  secluded.  However  thronged  with  phan 
toms  of  the  mind,  it  was  sterile  in  external  ex 
perience.  He  describes  it,  himself,  as  a  semi-vital 
existence.  Nor  was  the  case  much  bettered  when  he, 
at  last,  emerged  from  the  Salem  chamber  into  the 
dull  and  ordinary  publicity  of  the  business  of  the 
community.  Whether  he  occupied  himself  as  a 
"measurer"  in  the  Boston  Custom  House,  or  spaded 
the  "gold-mine,"  as  he  euphoniously  styled  the 
manure  heap  at  Brook  Farm,  or  collected  his  slim 
salary  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year  as 
"surveyor"  in  the  custom-house  at  Salem,  he  was 
unable  to  be  content  with  his  part  in  the  common 


TALES    OF   AN    ELDER    DAY         63 

lot.  There  was  always,  of  course,  the  rigid  line, 
dividing  his  existence  into  two  lives,  one  humdrum 
with  mortal  tasks,  and  the  other  imaginative,  medi 
tative,  spiritual.  He  never  found  vital  air  in  "prac 
tical  life";  as  soon  as  he  breathed  that  atmosphere, 
he  began  to  be  asphyxiated;  "this  earthly  cavern 
where  I  am  now  buried,''  he  writes  of  his  Boston 
office,  and,  again,  "my  darksome  dungeon  .  .  . 
into  which  dismal  region  never  comes  any  bird  of 
paradise."  On  the  other  hand  he  never  tires  of 
minute  observation,  of  day-dreaming,  of  moral 
analysis,  and  of  recombining  these  mental  elements 
in  his  life  in  imaginative  creation  in  his  tales.  The 
activity  of  his  mind  throws  into  strong  contrast,  at 
times,  the  triviality  of  the  matter  on  which  it  is  em 
ployed.  One  grows  more  and  more  aware  of  the 
fineness  of  the  mental  quality,  and  also  of  the  pov 
erty  of  the  matter  of  life  involved.  Here  is  a 
natural  artist,  one  says, — sensibility,  imagination, 
temperament, — but  he  starves. 

Hawthorne  was  not  indifferent  to  his  surround 
ings  nor  impatient  of  them.  He  made  the  most  of 
what  his  eyes  saw,  and  of  the  suggestions  that  arose 
in  his  heart  and  imagination.  He  cultivated  his 
experience,  indeed,  with  great  assiduity  and  econ 
omy.  A  necessity  seemed  laid  upon  him  to  set  down 
in  words  the  scenes  and  meditations  that  made  up 
his  day,  as  if  a  spell  were  upon  him  to  make  a  record 
of  what  passed  and  only  his  pen  would  relieve  the 
ever-present  need  of  expression.  The  circle  of  ex- 


64  HAWTHORNE 

perience  within  which  he  worked  was  narrow;  but 
it  was  minutely  scanned,  as  if  he  would  make  up  by 
scrutiny  and  penetration  what  there  was  lacking  in 
extent.  He  slowly  took  possession  of  the  object 
and  completely  absorbed  it,  whatever  it  might  be; 
but,  in  the  process  of  absorption,  an  artistic  element 
was  at  work,  a  thing  of  selection  and  modification, 
of  suggestion  oftentimes,  which  gave  a  special  char 
acter  to  the  image  or  the  thought,  and  made  them 
Hawthornesque.  This  belonged  to  the  artist  in 
Hawthorne.  It  is  true  that  the  charm  operated  even 
on  the  trivial  and  meager,  in  daily  life;  its  fascina 
tion,  in  some  sort,  is  over  all  he  wrote ;  but  the  spell 
was  ever  seeking  a  wider  horizon,  an  atmosphere  of 
greater  freedom  from  the  pressure  of  the  actual, 
an  ether  of  more  delicate  and  secret  life,  in  which 
to  work  its  full  power  of  magic  and  mystery.  In  a 
word,  Hawthorne's  genius,  as  it  grew  more  and 
more  aware  of  itself  in  its  mastery  of  expression, 
though  sensitive  to  its  environment  on  every  side, 
and,  indeed,  in  a  true  sense  its  product,  seems  seek 
ing  to  escape  from  it.  His  genius  had,  as  it  were, 
an  instinct  of  escape,  which  slowly  found  a  larger 
world.  What  really  happened  to  Hawthorne,  how 
ever,  was  that,  as  he  grew,  his  mind  became  stored 
with  the  experiences  of  past  generations  and  of 
other  times,  and  his  imagination  operated  on  this 
new  material.  The  fresh  matter  came  in  the  shape 
of  history  or  of  local  tradition;  it  was  not  purely 
imaginary,  but  it  offered  less  resistance  to  the  ar- 


TALES    OF    AN    ELDER    DAY         65 

tistic  touch  than  did  the  matter-of-fact  of  the  sub 
stantial  environment  in  the  scenes  of  the  Salem 
countryside  and  the  characters  of  the  village. 
Habitually  in  the  note-books,  occasionally  in  the 
tales,  and  especially  in  the  story  of  Blithedale,  Haw 
thorne  dealt  with  reality,  as  he  saw  it, — with  the 
commonplace,  the  contemporary,  and  the  usual,  how 
ever  it  might  be  picked  out  with  romantic  color, 
now  and  then ;  but  it  was  not  in  such  work  that  his 
genius  took  wing.  These  passages,  charming  as 
they  often  are  by  virtue  of  some  secret  touch  of 
glamour  or  of  memory,  give  up  their  charm,  in  the  j 
main,  only  to  a  reader  with  a  certain  affection  for  ; 
New  England.  The  true  romancer — the  magician  \ 
—requires  another  and  imaginary  sphere.  He  found 
it  slowly,  and  he  did  not  always  inhabit  it;  he  did 
not,  at  the  best,  inhabit  it  altogether ;  and  from  time 
to  time  he  "harked  back,"  as  the  old  saying  was, 
to  the  "real"  world  and  actual  things.  He  made  his 
first  adventures  in  the  imaginary  world  most  not 
ably  by  attempts  to  reconstruct  colonial  scenes,  with 
a  solid  historical  core,  and  history  proved  itself  a 
good  hand-maid  to  romance,  as  it  has  often  done. 
The  colonial  tradition,  in  brief,  was  a  main  avenue 
of  his  escape  from  the  environment  in  which  he 
found  himself  in  his  youth.  On  what  other  scenes, 
indeed,  should  he  exercise  his  imagination  than  those 
that  formed  his  mental  horizon, — the  legendary 
"Sabbaths"  of  old  Witch  Lane,  the  sea-tragedies  of 
Marblehead  beaches,  the  historic  episodes  of  Salem 


( 
66  HAWTHORNE 

streets?  For  days  he  would  sit,  at  Salem,  in  an 
alcove  of  the  Athenaeum  library  reading,  with  only 
one  other  person  in  another  alcove.  What  sights 
would  interest  his  "mind's  eye"  more,  amid  that 
solitude,  than  the  stately  figures  of  the  former  age 
at  the  old  Province  House,  near  by  in  Boston,  or  the 
ancient  worthies  of  his  own  Puritan  city  in  its  early 
years ;  and  who  could  set  the  mould  for  his  imagina 
tion  to  display  the  panorama  of  sixty  or  a  hundred 
years  before  with  more  certainty  than  the  great 
"Author  of  Waverley"?  When  Hawthorne's  eyes 
ceased  to  rest  on  the  falling  snow  in  the  winter  twi 
light,  or  on  the  tasks  of  the  sea-beach  or  the  com 
mon  sights  of  the  town-life,  it  was  on  the  ancestral 
scenes  of  his  own  people  that  he  most  delighted  to 
look  in  fancy,  and  it  was  with  such  a  wand  as  Scott's 
that  he  summoned  up  the  vision.  In  these  episodes 
of  "the  times  before,"  as  they  were  depicted  by  his 
pen,  both  he  and  his  subjects  were  at  their  best.  It 
is  true  that  in  the  humbler  scenes  from  the  days 
that  had  gone  by  there  is  a  more  delicate,  if  less  ob 
vious  charm;  but  for  boldness,  power  and  concen 
tration,  what  piece  of  historical  imagination  have 
our  records  finer  than  the  tale,  of  "Endicott  and  the 
Red  Cross"  ?  or,  more  impressive  still  because  of  its 
element  of  mystery,  "The  Gray  Champion"?  The 
story  is  of  the  New  England,  where  American 
liberty  began.  It  is  a  scene  from  a  land  of  long 
ago ;  but  it  holds  its  colors  well.  It  was  long  a  popu 
lar  tale. 


TALES    OF   AN    ELDER    DAY         67 

Stones  of  this  sort  find  a  true  home  in  the  peo 
ple's  heart.  They  are  like  the  old  tale  of  King  Al 
fred  and  the  cakes,  that  is  almost  the  first  glimpse  of 
history  that  many  of  us  ever  had.  They  smell  of 
antiquity,  and  give  substance  to  a  nation's  whole 
past.  In  the  nature  of  things  there  can  not  be  many 
such,  with  so  wide  and  so  long  an  appeal  to  a  nation's 
instincts.  "The  Gray  Champion,"  however,  has  a 
number  of  less  distinguished  kindred  among  Haw 
thorne's  imaginary  revivals  of  colonial  times.  The 
series  of  the  "Tales  of  the  Province  House"  is  the 
most  brilliant  group  of  these,  both  for  romantic 
color  and  historical  illusion.  "Old  Esther  Dudley"  is 
a  dame  no  Bostonian  of  "the  old  race"  ever  for 
gets,  and  "Sweet  Alice  Vane"  still  has  her  gentle 
gallants,  however  unknown.  Quite  apart,  too,  from 
the  local  color  and  human  attraction  of  such  figures 
in  the  colonial  drama,  reminiscent  of  the  gentlemen 
and  fashions  of  buried  time,  there  is,  besides,  in 
these  legends  that  something  Hawthornesque 
which  discloses  a  temperament,  and  marks  them 
as  from  an  artist's  hand.  These  sketches  all  tran 
scend  reality  by  their  simplification;  thence  comes 
that  impression  they  make  of  something  elemental 
in  them,  which  of  itself  proclaims  them  works  of 
art.  They  bear  traces  of  Hawthorne's  genius,  as  a 
statue  keeps  the  marks  of  the  soil  from  which  it 
has  been  dug.  His  personality  has  passed  into  the 
story  created  in  his  imagination.  In  a  certain  de 
gree  this  is  true  also  of  his  note-books,  of  his  bor- 


68  HAWTHORNE 

rowings  from  his  observations,  and  of  the  contempo 
rary  portrayals  at  Blithedale ;  but,  broadly  speaking, 
his  genius  makes  a  purer  impress  in  proportion  as 
he  recedes  from  the  actual  in  circumstance,  charac 
ter  and  event.  In  other  words,  his  genius  first  found 
that  larger  world  it  sought,  with  entire  freedom  and 
opportunity  to  develop  its  power,  by  brooding  over 
and  dreaming  in  and  recreating  the  colonial  tradition 
which  was  the  background  of  himself  and  the  com 
munity  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Hawthorne's  genius,  however  idiosyncratic  it 
may  appear,  will  never  be  dissociated  from  his  com 
munity;  the  two  are  revealed  together.  So  comple 
mentary  do  they  appear  that  it  would  seem,  at  some 
moments  of  reflection,  that  only  by  the  light  of 
that  genius  could  the  Puritan  community,  in  a  true 
sense,  have  been  visibly  set  forth,  and  again  that 
only  that  community  could  have  been  the  proper 
medium  to  display  his  genius.  The  reality  was  seen 
through  his  temperament,  and  the  two  tended  more 
and  more  to  be  fused  in  one  union;  but,  in  the  ear 
lier  years,  the  communal  element  was  more  evident, 
in  the  avowedly  historical  sketches  and  local  scenes, 
— portraits  of  places,  rightly  so-called,  alike  from 
their  method  and  their  theme;  while  the  tempera 
ment  of  the  writer  counts  for  more,  his  individu 
ality  makes  a  larger  contribution,  in  proportion  as 
he  passes  from  the  general  to  the  private  life.  In 
narrating  the  excursion  of  Goodman  Brown  into  the 
Essex  woods,  in  attendance  on  the  witches'  Sabbath, 


TALES    OF    AN    ELDER    DAY         69 

Hawthorne  summons  up  the  ghosts  of  the  whole 
Satanic  countryside  of  that  far-off  day,  and  all  he 
accomplishes  by  it  is  to  unsettle  the  Goodman's  faith 
in  the  honesty  and  virtue  of  his  neighbors;  but  the 
lesson  implied  as  to  the  doubt  of  every-day  appear 
ances,  is  less  prominent  than  the  orgy  of  diabolism 
itself.  HowT  curiously  lacking  in  imagination  those 
orgies  in  the  forest  now  seem  to  us,  though  faithful 
to  the  crude  and  childish  fancies  of  the  time !  What 
is  read  in  the  tale,  in  the  main,  is  less  the  eternal 
lesson  of  the  possibilities  of  hypocrisy — by  no  means 
a  novel  and  not  at  all  an  improving  lesson — than  the 
simple  phantasmagoria  of  a  superstitious  and  much 
bedeviled  age.  To  take  another  instance  of  com 
munal  coloring  in  the  hundred  short  tales  of  Haw 
thorne,  the  commonplace  incidents  told  in  "The 
Wives  of  the  Dead''  set  forth  circumstances  and 
moments  of  customary  tragedy  in  the  houses  of  a 
seacoast  village.  The  story  is  told  out  of  the  life 
of  the  time,  out  of  the  occupations  and  the  fatality 
of  humble  people  in  the  usual  routine  of  work  and 
sleep  and  death ;  but  it  is  drenched  with  Hawthorne's 
temperament.  No  other  pen  could  have  written  it. 
In  quite  a  different  way,  "Browne's  Wooden  Im 
age,"  is  yet  more  individual  and  Hawthornesque, 
to  use  the  term  that  best  designates  the  thing.  It 
has  to  do  with  an  artist  temperament  in  a  carver 
of  wood,  and  with  the  transformation  that  love 
wrought  upon  his  skill,  when  once  he  carved  a 
figure  for  the  bowsprit  of  a  ship.  The  tale  belongs 


70  HAWTHORNE 

with  the  small  group  in  Hawthorne's  works  that 
deal  directly  with  the  experiences  of  the  artistic  life. 
The  humbleness  of  the  wood-carver  and  his  associ 
ation  with  ships  fit  in  with  the  community;  but  his 
talent,  vitalized  as  it  was  by  love,  was  a  thing  of 
personal  delicacy,  and  the  power  to  evoke  it  from 
the  environment  was  Hawthorne's  peculiar  spell. 

Hawthorne's  genius,  indeed,  penetrated  his  ma 
terial  to  such  a  degree  as  to  take  complete  possession 
of  it,  though  the  finished  blend  may  seem  to  have 
more  of  realism  in  one  place  and  more  of  fancy  in 
another.  Whether  the  community  or  the  tempera 
ment  of  the  writer  comes  more  to  the  fore,  it  is  the 
romance  of  New  England  that  the  page  gives  up, — 
the  New  England  of  a  romantic  imagination,  now 
almost  as  well  established  in  tradition  as  history 
itself.  It  is  not  merely  that  Hawthorne  sheds  the 
sympathetic  and  penetrative  light  of  indigenous 
genius  upon  a  thousand  facets  of  the  life  and  cir 
cumstances  where  New  England  was  bred  by  the 
sea  and  in  the  upland  on  the  edge  of  the  early  and 
withdrawing  wilderness;  he  did  this,  and  it  is  won 
derful  with  what  a  fulness  of  miscellaneous  illustra 
tion  of  the  people,  the  times  and  the  interests  of  old 
New  England  he  has  made  his  works  a  deposit,  as 
it  were,  of  past  generations;  but  amid  all  this  di 
versity  of  age  and  sex  and  circumstance,  of  era 
and  creed,  of  history  and  legend,  of  the  look  of  the 
forest  and  the  sea  and  the  meadows,  he  drew  nearer 
and  nearer,  as  he  grew  older  in  art  and  wisdom,  to 


TALES    OF    AN    ELDER    DAY         71 

the  heart  of  it  all,  to  the  spell  of  the  soil  that  placed 
all  these  things  in  a  spiritual  medium,  wrapped  them 
in  it  and  saw  them  through  it ;  in  other  words,  first 
of  all,  his  material  was  neither  dramatic  nor  pic 
turesque,  not  merely  human,  neither  emotional  nor 
esthetic,  but  it  was  simply  and  above  all  moral  ma 
terial;  nothing  else  in  it  greatly  counted  for  him; 
and  it  was  by  this  preoccupation  with  and  pene 
tration  into  the  secret  of  New  England — old  New 
England — that  he  became  the  great  New  England 
romancer,  and  its  historical  embodiment  in  our  na 
tional  literature. 

There  was  a  younger  aspect  of  the  New  England 
that  has  now  become  old  New  England  in  Haw 
thorne's  tales  for  children.  The  presence  of  child 
hood  in  his  minor  works  is  a  noticeable  trait  and 
often  gives  a  gleam  of  sunshine  and  a  tender  touch 
to  his  musings  or  descriptions;  but  nowhere  with 
such  a  concentrated  charm  and  brightness  as  in  the 
group  of  eager  countenances  that  listened  to  the 
youthful  story-teller  of  the  Greek  myths,  which 
themselves  seem  independent  of  time.  The  two 
clusters  of  Hawthorne's  Tanglewood  stories  stand 
quite  apart  from  his  other  work,  in  an  ideal  realm 
of  their  own;  but,  in  one  case,  they  are  framed,  as 
it  were,  on  a  background  of  rural  pictures  of  the 
Berkshire  year,  exquisitely  beautiful,  like  little 
fresco  squares  of  the  seasons  on  which  the  childish 
groups  are  relieved,  as  it  might  be  in  Italian  paint 
ing;  and,  in  the  second  case,  the  listeners  are  felt. 


72  HAWTHORNE 

if  not  seen,  so  familiar  has  the  essential  situation 
of  story-telling  become  in  the  series.  The  old  New 
England  where  these  tales  were  told  was  as  real  as 
the  snow-storm  with  which  this  volume  began,  as 
the  fishing-village  and  Concord  and  Blithedale.  All 
these  elements  melt  now  into  one  field  of  memory, 
reaching  back  in  the  far  distance  to  witchcraft  days, 
the  Gray  Champion  and  the  unchanging  rock-bound 
coast.  It  is  this  field  of  memory  that  Hawthorne's 
imagination  enlightens,  while  he  draws  from  it  the 
truths  of  life. 


CHAPTER  III 
HAWTHORNE'S  ARTISTIC  METHOD 

THE  artistic  method  of  an  original  genius  sel 
dom  seems  to  be  deliberate ;  it  appears,  rather, 
to  begin  in  instinctive  motions  and  to  be  developed 
largely  by  experiment.  In  Hawthorne's  earlier  work 
there  is  no  intention  discernible  except  to  write ;  the 
topic  may  be  this  or  that,  but  the  incitement  is  plainly 
self-expression,  to  publish  what  is  interesting  in  his 
own  mind  to  himself,  something  fanciful,  it  may  be, 
or  something  reportorial  in  the  form  of  a  sketch, 
past  or  present  or  in  no  man's  land.  Mental  ac 
tivity,  supported  by  a  sharp  eye  and  a  reflective 
turn  of  thought,  explains  fully,  perhaps,  the  begin 
nings  of  his  genius.  As  time  went  on,  however,  a 
promise  of  organizing  power  grew  visible,  a  nascent 
genius  with  a  bent  of  its  own;  and  though  there 
was  nothing  wholly  novel  in  the  method  that  began 
to  show,  yet  Hawthorne  so  subdued  it  to  his  per 
sonality,  and  released  his  genius  in  great  measure 
by  it,  that  it  has  come  to  be  characteristically  his, 
and  qualifies  his  literary  memory.  There  is  much 
of  his  writing  in  which  this  artistic  method  does  not 
enter,  or  is  slightly  used  when  employed  at  all;  a 
good  portion  of  his  work  was  miscellaneous  or  non- 
73 


74  HAWTHORNE 

descript;  but  as  he  attempted  imaginative  creation, 
he  relied  upon  his  method  more  and  more  till  it 
was  practically  exhausted,  so  far  as  it  was  service 
able  to  him.  It  is  most  convenient  to  examine  it  in 
the  major  short  tales  of  imagination,  where  it  is 
most  clear. 

The  primary  element  in  Hawthorne's  art  is  the 
image,  clearly  and  vividly  grasped  by  the  eye.  It  is 
an  image,  like  others,  out  of  the  general  flux,  or 
flow  of  sensations  that  make  up  our  impression  of 
the  outer  world  as  a  moving  picture.  Its  appeal 
to  him  was  due  to  the  strength  of  his  power  of  ob 
servation,  and  it  afforded  the  sensuous  basis  of  his 
genius.  But  he  was  not  only  an  observer,  he  was  a 
thinker ;  and,  more  than  a  thinker,  he  was  a  brooder 
upon  thought, — often,  upon  one  thought.  The  idea, 
the  second  element  in  his  art,  belongs  in  a  higher 
region  than  sensation,  in  a  world  whose  principle  is 
intellectual  order  rather  than  temporal  sequence — 
that  is,  in  the  universal  world  of  thought,  not  in  the 
world  of  events.  The  effort  of  art  is  to  blend  these 
two  worlds, — to  pass  from  the  world  of  the  image  to 
the  world  of  the  idea,  and  accumulate  truth  on  the 
way  without  loss  of  distinctness  in  the  vision.  Haw 
thorne  was  an  expert  in  the  process,  for  he  had  tried 
it  in  many  forms.  He  was  well  endowed  for  the  at 
tempt,  both  by  his  eye  for  the  image  and  his  mind 
for  the  idea.  He  was  equally  at  home  in  the  world 
of  sense  and  in  that  of  thought;  he  would  use  the 
former  to  express  the  latter,  for  the  former  is  pri- 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD     75 

mary,  at  first,  as  the  latter  is  fundamental  at  last. 
To  observe  his  fortunes  with  his  task  is  to  have  a 
lesson  in  the  ways  of  a  genius  with  his  art. 

Hawthorne,  in  that  portion  of  his  general  work 
which  is  capital  in  importance,  was  accustomed  to 
select  some  simple  object,  such  as  a  veil  or  a  flower 
or  a  butterfly,  and  then  by  gradual  touches  to  give  it 
secret  and  mysterious  significance  till  the  object, 
whatever  it  was,  became  a  sort  of  fetish  to  the  mind, 
— a  thing  whose  meaning  and  essential  nature  was 
wholly  apart  from  its  outward  seeming.  The  image, 
so  presented,  always  had  a  relation  to  an  idea,  some 
times  in  one  way,  sometimes  in  another.  He  gazed 
at  the  image,  as  one  looks  at  a  crystal  globe,  accord 
ing  to  old  stories,  till  he  saw  something ;  by  a  process 
of  repetition,  suggestion,  echo,  which  may  briefly 
be  described  as  overlay,  and  by  a  profound  artistic 
concentration  of  interest,  curiosity  and  mystery,  he 
charged  the  image  with  mental  meaning  until  it 
seemed  to  deny  its  original  nature,  and  become,  with 
various  degrees  of  success,  a  thing  of  thought  in 
stead  of  sense.  It  is  sometimes  customary  to  de 
scribe  this  method  of  writing  as  allegory;  but  it  is 
an  inexact  expression  and  does  not  discriminate  be> 
tween  the  many  ways  in  which  the  spell  is  woven.  A 
simple  case  is  the  tale  of  "The  Minister's  Veil."  The 
story  is  that  a  minister  wore  a  veil  for  many  years 
over  his  face  so  that  none  should  see  his  features. 
The  idea  developed  is,  of  course,  the  secrecy  of 
men's  hosoms.  The  veil  is  "allegorical,"  and 


76  HAWTHORNE 

"stands  for"  the  impenetrable  curtain  of  the  human 
breast.  But  Hawthorne's  tale  is  more  delicately  told 
than  these  words  imply.  The  veil,  the  physical  ob 
ject,  is  moralized  and  becomes  a  type,  the  universal 
garment  of  secrecy,  and  the  particular  minister 
himself,  whatever  his  story,  fades  into  a  class  of 
men;  both  veil  and  minister  have  entered  into  the  in 
tellectual  world. 

The  main  theme  of  this  tale — the  solitude  of  a 
man's  bosom — had  a  potent  fascination  for  Haw 
thorne.  He  was  himself  of  a  solitary  nature  and 
accustomed  to  the  unheard  voices  that  deepen  soli 
tude.  His  understanding  of  such  natures  came  from 
sympathy,  grounded  upon  much  intimate"  acquaint 
ance  with  loneliness.  The  Puritan  heredity  in  him, 
the  moral  prepossession  of  his  genius,  gave  direction 
to  his  thoughts  and,  especially  in  this  field,  a  dark 
color  to  his  imaginations;  the  secrecy  of  men's  bos 
oms,  in  itself  a  normal  and  necessary  incident  of  life 
— and  there  are  happy  as  well  as  dark  secrets — be 
came  another  name  for  hypocrisy,  or  it  suggested 
the  gloom  natural  to  religious  musings  in  those  parts 
and  in  the  age  from  which  for  the  most  part  his 
genius  derived  its  traits.  Solitary  natures  with  a 
guilty  sense  were,  through  life,  a  main  theme  of 
his  brooding;  the  situation,  indeed,  was  one  of  his 
fixed  ideas,  from  which  his  imagination  never  freed 
itself.  In  the  Protean  changes  of  such  a  creative 
idea  it  is  natural  to  find  the  notion  of  suppressed 
crimes  recur  again  and  again  in  his  work,  and  also 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD     77 

to  discover  in  his  description  of  the  motions  of  the 
human  breast  something  of  the  knowledge  and  skill 
of  a  confessor.  It  is  here,  in  particular,  that  the 
psychologist  is  seen  at  work,  as  it  were  in  his  study, 
upon  the  diseased  heart,  to  draw  out  its  secret. 
Hawthorne,  before  he  had  run  his  course,  made  this 
feature  a  cardinal  element  in  his  novels. 

In  the  tale  of  "The  Minister's  Veil"  the  relation 
of  the  image  to  the  idea  is  obvious ;  there  is  no  true 
fusion  of  the  two,  but  each  is  kept  clearly  apart. 
The  union  between  the  sensuous  and  mental  ele 
ments  grows  more  close  in  other  narratives,  and  a 
certain  scale,  denoting  their  approach,  might  be 
taken  almost  as  an  index  of  the  artistic  success  of 
the  method.  In  "Lady  Eleanor's  Mantle"  the  proud 
and  haughty  Lady  Eleanor  is  presented  from  the 
first  as  already  in  moral  isolation  by  her  character, 
which  is  summarized  and  expressed  in  the  rich  man 
tle  she  wears ;  but  this  moral  isolation  is  made  evi 
dent  only  by  the  physical  isolation  which  results 
from  the  dread  and  secret  contagion  hidden  in  the 
folds  of  the  garment.  The  very  sign  and  outward 
seat  of  her  pride,  the  mantle,  is  the  center  and  source 
of  her  humiliation;  from  being  the  one  who  casts 
off,  she  becomes  herself  an  outcast  from  human  so 
ciety.  The  physical  union  of  the  image  with  the 
person  involved  is  closer  than  in  the  instance  of  the 
veil;  and  there  results  from  this  a  sense  of  subtler 
fusion  between  the  image  and  the  idea  itself.  This 
intimate  fusion  is  still  more  keenly  felt  in  the  tale 


78  HAWTHORNE 

of  "The  Birthmark,"  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the 
moral  lesson  is  drawn  that  imperfection  is  the  nec 
essary  condition  of  mortality  to  the  degree  that  with 
its  removal  death  must  supervene,  just  as,  when  the 
birthmark  fades,  the  woman  dies.  A  still  greater 
blend  of  the  physical  image  with  the  person  is  found 
in  "Rappaccini's  Daughter,"  the  woman  who  has 
inhaled  the  fragrance  of  the  poison-tree  until  she  is 
herself  its  living  flower.  In  the  cases  mentioned  the 
physical  image  is,  in  an  ascending  scale,  more  com 
pletely  personified;  and  the  mental  idea  is,  corre 
spondingly,  more  vitally  expressed. 

The  fusion  of  the  image  with  the  idea,  without 
the  intervention  of  a  human  person,  is  more  curi 
ously  wrought  out  in  what  is  by  far  the  most  subtle 
of  Hawthorne's  tales  in  this  manner,  both  in  thought 
and  workmanship,  "The  Artist  of  the  Beautiful." 
The  artist  is,  here,  indeed,  an  intermediary  in  the 
process ;  but  the  image  in  no  way  enters  into  his  own 
personality, — on  the  contrary,  it  proceeds  from  the 
artist,  as  a  creation.  The  Butterfly  is  his  work — a 
mechanical  toy,  perhaps;  or,  perhaps,  it  is  a  "spir- 
itualization  of  matter."  What  else  is  all  art  but  a 
spiritualization  of  matter?  The  story  of  his  work  is 
told  with  infinite  knowledge, — how  it  began,  how  it 
was  broken  off,  how  it  was  finished,  and  also  what 
was  its  worth  to  the  artist,  when  he  had  succeeded. 
The  union  of  the  image  with  the  idea  in  this  tale 
amounts  to  identity:  it  is  complete.  The  idea  ab 
sorbs  the  image,  and  leaves  it,  at  the  end,  a  thing  of 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD     79 

"little  value,"  like  the  "glittering  fragments"  in  the 
infant's  palm  at  the  conclusion  of  the  story,  which 
illustrates  the  method  of  Hawthorne's  art,  in  this 
regard,  at  its  highest  power : 

"But  to  return  to  Owen  Warland.  It  was  his  for 
tune,  good  or  ill,  to  achieve  the  purpose  of  his  life. 
Pass  we  over  a  long  space  of  intense  thought,  yearn 
ing  effort,  minute  toil,  and  wasting  anxiety,  suc 
ceeded  by  an  instant  of  solitary  triumph :  let  all  this 
be  imagined ;  and  then  behold  the  artist,  on  a  winter 
evening,  seeking  admittance  to  Robert  Danforth's 
fireside  circle.  There  he  found  the  man  of  iron,  with 
his  massive  substance  thoroughly  warmed  and  at 
tempered  by  domestic  influences.  And  there  was 
Annie,  too,  now  transformed  into  a  matron,  with 
much  of  her  husband's  plain  and  sturdy  nature,  but 
imbued,  as  Owen  Warland  still  believed,  with  a  finer 
grace,  that  might  enable  her  to  be  the  interpreter 
between  strength  and  beauty.  It  happened,  likewise, 
that  old  Peter  Hovenden  was  a  guest  this  evening  at 
his  daughters  fireside;  and  it  was  his  well-remem 
bered  expression  of  keen,  cold  criticism  that  first  en 
countered  the  artist's  glance. 

"  'My  old  friend  Owen !'  cried  Robert  Danforth, 
starting  up,  and  compressing  the  artist's  delicate  fin 
gers  with  a  hand  that  was  accustomed  to  gripe  bars 
of  iron.  'This  is  kind  and  neighborly  to  come  to  us 
at  last.  I  was  afraid  your  perpetual  motion  had  be 
witched  you  out  of  the  remembrance  of  old  times.' 


80  HAWTHORNE 

"  'We  are  glad  to  see  you !'  said  Annie,  while  a 
blush  reddened  her  matronly  cheek.  'It  was  not  like 
a  friend  to  stay  from  us  so  long/ 

!  'Well,  Owen/  inquired  the  old  watchmaker,  as 
his  first  greeting,  'how  comes  on  the  beautiful? 
Have  you  created  it  at  last?' 

"The  artist  did  not  immediately  reply,  being 
startled  by  the  apparition  of  a  young  child  of 
strength  that  was  tumbling  about  on  the  carpet, — a 
little  personage  who  had  come  mysteriously  out  of 
the  infinite,  but  with  something  so  sturdy  and  real 
in  his  composition  that  he  seemed  moulded  out  of 
the  densest  substance  which  earth  could  supply. 
This  hopeful  infant  crawled  towards  the  new-comer, 
and  setting  himself  on  end,  as  Robert  Dan  forth  ex 
pressed  the  posture,  stared  at  Owen  with  a  look  of 
such  sagacious  observation  that  the  mother  could 
not  help  exchanging  a  proud  glance  with  her  hus 
band.  But  the  artist  was  disturbed  by  the  child's 
look,  as  imagining  a  resemblance  between  it  and 
Peter  Hovenden's  habitual  expression.  He  could 
have  fancied  that  the  old  watchmaker  was  com 
pressed  into  this  baby  shape,  and  looking  out  of 
those  baby  eyes,  and  repeating,  as  he  now  did,  the 
malicious  question : — 

"  'The  beautiful,  Owen !  How  comes  on  the  beau 
tiful?  Have  you  succeeded  in  creating  the  beauti 
ful?' 

1  'I  have  succeeded,'  replied  the  artist,  with  a  mo 
mentary  light  of  triumph  in  his  eyes  and  a  smile  of 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD     81 

sunshine,  yet  steeped  in  such  depth  of  thought  that  it 
was  almost  sadness.  'Yes,  my  friends,  it  is  the  truth. 
I  have  succeeded/ 

"  'Indeed !'  cried  Annie,  a  look  of  maiden  mirth- 
fulness  peeping  out  of  her  face  again.  'And  is  it 
lawful,  now,  to  inquire  what  the  secret  is?' 

"  'Surely;  it  is  to  disclose  it  that  I  have  come/  an 
swered  Owen  Warland.  'You  shall  know,  and  see, 
and  touch,  and  possess  the  secret!  For,  Annie, — if 
by  that  name  I  may  still  address  the  friend  of  my 
boyish  years, — Annie,  it  is  for  your  bridal  gift  that 
I  have  wrought  this  spiritualized  mechanism,  this 
harmony  of  motion,  this  mystery  of  beauty.  It 
comes  late,  indeed;  but  it  is  as  we  go  onward  in  life, 
when  objects  begin  to  lose  their  freshness  of  hue  and 
our  souls  their  delicacy  of  perception,  that  the  spirit 
of  beauty  is  most  needed.  If, — forgive  me,  Annie, 
— if  you  know  how  to  value  this  gift,  it  can  never 
come  too  late.' 

"He  produced,  as  he  spoke,  what  seemed  a  jewel 
box.  It  was  carved  richly  out  of  ebony  by  his  own 
hand,  and  inlaid  with  a  fanciful  tracery  of  pearl 
representing  a  boy  in  pursuit  of  a  butterfly,  which, 
elsewhere,  had  become  a  winged  spirit,  and  was  fly 
ing  heavenward ;  while  the  boy,  or  youth,  had  found 
such  efficacy  in  his  strong  desire  that  he  ascended 
from  earth  to  cloud,  and  from  cloud  to  celestial  at 
mosphere,  to  win  the  beautiful.  This  case  of  ebony 
the  artist  opened,  and  bade  Annie  place  her  finger 
on  its  edge.  She  did  so,  but  almost  screamed  as  a 


82  HAWTHORNE 

butterfly  fluttered  forth,  and,  alighting  on  her  fin 
ger's  tip,  sat  waving  the  ample  magnificence  of  its 
purple  and  gold-speckled  wings,  as  if  in  prelude  to  a 
flight.  It  is  impossible  to  express  by  words  the 
glory,  the  splendor,  the  delicate  gorgeousness  which 
were  softened  into  the  beauty  of  this  object.  Na 
ture's  ideal  butterfly  was  here  realized  in  all  its  per 
fection;  not  in  the  pattern  of  such  faded  insects  as 
flit  among  earthly  flowers,  but  of  those  which  hover 
across  the  meads  of  paradise  for  child-angels  and 
the  spirits  of  departed  infants  to  disport  themselves 
with.  The  rich  down  was  visible  upon  its  wings; 
the  luster  of  its  eyes  seemed  instinct  with  spirit. 
The  firelight  glimmered  around  this  wonder — the 
candles  gleamed  upon  it;  but  it  glistened  apparently 
by  its  own  radiance,  and  illuminated  the  finger  and 
outstretched  hand  on  which  it  rested  with  a  white 
gleam  like  that  of  precious  stones.  In  its  perfect 
beauty,  the  consideration  of  size  was  entirely  lost. 
Had  its  wings  overreached  the  firmament,  the  mind 
could  not  have  been  more  filled  or  satisfied. 

"'Beautiful!  beautiful!'  exclaimed  Annie.  Is  it 
alive  ?  Is  it  alive  ?' 

"  ' Alive  ?  To  be  sure  it  is/  answered  her  husband. 
'Do  you  suppose  any  mortal  has  skill  enough  to 
make  a  butterfly,  or  would  put  himself  to  the  trouble 
of  making  one,  when  any  child  may  catch  a  score  of 
them  in  a  summer's  afternoon?  Alive?  Certainly! 
But  this  pretty  box  is  undoubtedly  of  our  friend 
Owen's  manufacture;  and  really  it  does  him  credit/ 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD    83 

"At  this  moment  the  butterfly  waved  its  wings 
anew,  with  a  motion  so  absolutely  lifelike  that  Annie 
was  startled,  and  even  awestricken;  for,  in  spite  of 
her  husband's  opinion,  she  could  not  satisfy  herself 
whether  it  was  indeed  a  living  creature  or  a  piece  of 
wondrous  mechanism. 

"  'Is  it  alive  ?'  she  repeated,  more  earnestly  than 
before. 

"  'Judge  for  yourself,'  said  Owen  Warland,  who 
stood  gazing  in  her  face  \vith  fixed  attention. 

"The  butterfly  now  flung  itself  upon  the  air,  flut 
tered  round  Annie's  head,  and  soared  into  a  distant 
region  of  the  parlor,  still  making  itself  perceptible  to 
sight  by  the  starry  gleam  in  which  the  motion  of  its 
wings  enveloped  it.  The  infant  on  the  floor  followed 
its  course  with  his  sagacious  little  eyes.  After  flying 
about  the  room,  it  returned  in  a  spiral  curve  and  set 
tled  again  on  Annie's  finger. 

"  'But  is  it  alive  ?'  exclaimed  she  again ;  and  the 
finger  on  which  the  gorgeous  mystery  had  alighted 
was  so  tremulous  that  the  butterfly  was  forced  to 
balance  himself  with  his  \vings.  'Tell  me  if  it  be 
alive,  or  whether  you  created  it.' 

"  'Wherefore  ask  who  created  it,  so  it  be  beauti 
ful?'  replied  Owen  \Varland.  'Alive?  Yes,  Annie; 
it  may  well  be  said  to  possess  life,  for  it  has  absorbed 
my  own  being  into  itself;  and  in  the  secret  of  that 
butterfly,  and  in  its  beauty, — which  is  not  merely 
outward,  but  deep  as  its  whole  system, — is  repre 
sented  the  intellect,  the  imagination,  the  sensibility, 


84  HAWTHORNE 

the  soul  of  an  Artist  of  the  Beautiful!  Yes;  I  cre 
ated  it.  But' — and  here  his  countenance  somewhat 
changed — 'this  butterfly  is  not  now  to  me  what  it 
was  when  I  beheld  it  afar  off  in  the  daydreams  of 
my  youth/ 

"  'Be  it  what  it  may,  it  is  a  pretty  plaything/  said 
the  blacksmith,  grinning  with  childlike  delight.  'I 
wonder  whether  it  would  condescend  to  alight  on 
such  a  great  clumsy  finger  as  mine  ?  Hold  it  hither, 
Annie.' 

"By  the  artist's  direction,  Annie  touched  her  fin 
ger's  tip  to  that  of  her  husband;  and,  after  a  mo 
mentary  delay,  the  butterfly  fluttered  from  one  to 
the  other.  It  preluded  a  second  flight  by  a  similar, 
yet  not  precisely  the  same,  waving  of  wings  as  in 
the  first  experiment ;  then,  ascending  from  the  black^ 
smith's  stalwart  finger,  it  rose  in  a  gradually  enlarg 
ing  curve  to  the  ceiling,  made  one  wide  sweep 
around  the  room,  and  returned  with  an  undulating 
movement  to  the  point  whence  it  had  started. 

"  'Well,  that  does  beat  all  nature !'  cried  Robert 
Danforth,  bestowing  the  heartiest  praise  that  he 
could  find  expression  for;  and  indeed,  had  he 
paused  there,  a  man  of  finer  words  and  nicer  percep 
tion  could  not  easily  have  said  more.  'That  goes  be 
yond  me,  I  confess.  But  what  then?  There  is  more 
real  use  in  one  downright  blow  of  my  sledge  hammer 
than  in  the  whole  five  years'  labor  that  our  friend 
Owen  has  wasted  on  this  butterfly/ 

"Here  the  child  clapped  his  hands  and  made  a 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD     85 

great  babble  of  indistinct  utterance,  apparently  de 
manding  that  the  butterfly  should  be  given  him  for 
a  plaything. 

"Owen  Warland,  meanwhile,  glanced  sidelong  at 
Annie,  to  discover  whether  she  sympathized  in  her 
husband's  estimate  of  the  comparative  value  of  the 
beautiful  and  the  practical.  There  was,  amid  all  her 
kindness  towrards  himself,  amid  all  the  wonder  and 
admiration  with  which  she  contemplated  the  marvel 
lous  work  of  his  hands  and  incarnation  of  his  idea,  a 
secret  scorn — too  secret,  perhaps,  for  her  own  con 
sciousness,  and  perceptible  only  to  such  intuitive  dis 
cernment  as  that  of  the  artist.  But  Owen,  in  the  lat 
ter  stages  of  his  pursuit,  had  risen  out  of  the  region 
in  which  such  a  discovery  might  have  been  torture. 
He  knewr  that  the  world,  and  Annie  as  the  represent 
ative  of  the  world,  whatever  praise  might  be  be 
stowed,  could  never  say  the  fitting  word  nor  feel  the 
fitting  sentiment  which  should  be  the  perfect  recom 
pense  of  an  artist  who,  symbolizing  a  lofty  moral  by 
a  material  trifle, — converting  what  was  earthly  to 
spiritual  gold, — had  won  the  beautiful  into  his  handi 
work.  Not  at  this  latest  moment  was  he  to  learn 
that  the  reward  of  all  high  performance  must  be 
sought  within  itself,  or  sought  in  vain.  There  was, 
however,  a  view  of  the  matter  which  Annie  and  her 
husband,  and  even  Peter  Hovenden,  might  fully 
have  understood,  and  which  would  have  satisfied 
them  that  the  toil  of  years  had  here  been  worthily 
bestowed.  Owen  Warland  might  have  told  them 


86  HAWTHORNE 

that  this  butterfly,  this  plaything,  this  bridal  gift  of  a 
poor  watchmaker  to  a  blacksmith's  wife,  was,  in 
truth,  a  gem  of  art  that  a  monarch  would  have  pur 
chased  with  honors  and  abundant  wealth,  and  have 
treasured  it  among  the  jewels  of  his  kingdom  as 
the  most  unique  and  wondrous  of  them  all.  But  the 
artist  smiled  and  kept  the  secret  to  himself. 

"  'Father,'  said  Annie,  thinking  that  a  word  of 
praise  from  the  old  watchmaker  might  gratify  his 
former  apprentice,  'do  come  and  admire  this  pretty 
butterfly/ 

"  'Let  us  see/  said  Peter  Hovenden,  rising  from 
his  chair,  with  a  sneer  upon  his  face  that  always 
made  people  doubt,  as  he  himself  did,  in  everything 
but  a  material  existence.  'Here  is  my  finger  for  it 
to  alight  upon.  I  shall  understand  it  better  when 
once  I  have  touched  it/ 

"But,  to  the  increased  astonishment  of  Annie, 
when  the  tip  of  her  father's  finger  was  pressed 
against  that  of  her  husband,  on  which  the  butterfly 
still  rested,  the  insect  drooped  its  wings  and  seemed 
on  the  point  of  falling  to  the  floor.  Even  the  bright 
spots  of  gold  upon  its  wings  and  body,  unless  her 
eyes  deceived  her,  grew  dim,  and  the  glowing  purple 
took  a  dusky  hue,  and  the  starry  luster  that  gleamed 
around  the  blacksmith's  hand  became  faint  and  van 
ished. 

"  'It  is  dying !  it  is  dying !'  cried  Annie  in  alarm. 

"  'It  has  been  delicately  wrought/  said  the  artist, 
calmly.  'As  I  told  you,  it  has  imbibed  a  spiritual  es- 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD     87 

sence — call  It  magnetism,  or  what  you  will.  In  an 
atmosphere  of  doubt  and  mockery  its  exquisite  sus 
ceptibility  suffers  torture,  as  does  the  soul  of  him 
who  instilled  his  own  life  into  it.  It  has  already  lost 
its  beauty;  but  in  a  few  moments  more  its  mech 
anism  would  be  irreparably  injured/ 

"  'Take  away  your  hand,  father !'  entreated  Annie, 
turning  pale.  'Here  is  my  child;  let  it  rest  on  his 
innocent  hand.  There,  perhaps,  its  life  will  revive 
and  its  colors  grow  brighter  than  ever.' 

"Her  father,  with  an  acrid  smile,  withdrew  his 
finger.  The  butterfly  then  appeared  to  recover  the 
power  of  voluntary  motion,  while  its  hues  assumed 
much  of  their  original  luster,  and  the  gleam  of  star 
light,  which  was  its  most  ethereal  attribute,  again 
formed  a  halo  round  about  it.  At  first,  when  trans 
ferred  from  Robert  Danforth's  hand  to  the  small 
finger  of  the  child,  this  radiance  grew  so  powerful 
that  it  positively  threw  the  little  fellow's  shadow 
back  against  the  wall.  He,  meanwhile,  extended  his 
plump  hand  as  he  had  seen  his  father  and  mother  do, 
and  watched  the  waving  of  the  insect's  wings  with 
infantine  delight.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  certain 
odd  expression  of  sagacity  that  made  Owen  War- 
land  feel  as  if  here  were  old  Peter  Hovenden,  par 
tially,  and  but  partially,  redeemed  from  his  hard 
skepticism  into  childish  faith. 

'  'How  wise  the  little  monkey  looks !'  whispered 
Robert  Dan  forth  to  his  wife. 

"  'I  never  saw  such  a  look  on  a  child's  face/  an- 


88  HAWTHORNE 

swered  Annie,  admiring  her  own  infant,  and  with 
good  reason,  far  more  than  the  artistic  butterfly. 
'The  darling  knows  more  of  the  mystery  than  we 
do.' 

"As  if  the  butterfly,  like  the  artist,  were  conscious 
of  something  not  entirely  congenial  in  the  child's 
nature,  it  alternately  sparkled  and  grew  dim.  At 
length  it  arose  from  the  small  hand  of  the  infant 
with  an  airy  motion  that  seemed  to  bear  it  upward 
without  an  effort,  as  if  the  ethereal  instincts  with 
which  its  master's  spirit  had  endowed  it  impelled 
this  fair  vision  involuntarily  to  a  higher  sphere. 
Had  there  been  no  obstruction,  it  might  have  soared 
into  the  sky  and  grown  immortal.  But  its  luster 
gleamed  upon  the  ceiling;  the  exquisite  texture  of  its 
wings  brushed  against  that  earthly  medium;  and  a 
sparkle  or'  two,  as  of  Stardust,  floated  downward 
and  lay  glimmering  on  the  carpet.  Then  the  butter 
fly  came  fluttering  down,  and,  instead  of  returning 
to  the  infant,  was  apparently  attracted  towards  the 
artist's  hand. 

"  'Not  so !  not  so !'  murmured  Owen  Warland,  as 
if  his  handiwork  could  have  understood  him.  Thou 
has  gone  forth  out  of  thy  master's  heart.  There  is 
no  return  for  thee.' 

"With  a  wavering  movement,  and  emitting  a 
tremulous  radiance,  the  butterfly  struggled,  as  it 
were,  towards  the  infant,  and  was  about  to  alight 
upon  his  finger;  but  while  it  still  hovered  in  the  air, 
the  little  child  of  strength,  with  his  grandsire's  sharp 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD     89 

and  shrewd  expression  in  his  face,  made  a  snatch  at 
the  marvellous  insect  and  compressed  it  in  his  hand. 
Annie  screamed.  Old  Peter  Hovenden  burst  into  a 
cold  and  scornful  laugh.  The  blacksmith,  by  main 
force,  unclosed  the  infant's  hand,  and  found  within 
the  palm  a  small  heap  of  glittering  fragments, 
whence  the  mystery  of  beauty  had  fled  forever.  And 
as  for  Owen  Warland,  he  looked  placidly  at  what 
seemed  the  ruin  of  his  life's  labor,  and  which  was 
yet  no  ruin.  He  had  caught  a  far  other  butterfly 
than  this.  When  the  artist  rose  high  enough  to 
achieve  the  beautiful,  the  symbol  by  which  he  made 
it  perceptible  to  mortal  senses  became  of  little  value 
in  his  eyes  while  his  spirit  possessed  itself  in  the  en 
joyment  of  the  reality." 

It  is  plain  that  Hawthorne's  art  in  this  tale  is 
quite  different  from,  and  goes  far  beyond  that  in 
such  a  narrative  as  "The  Gray  Champion."  The 
latter  story  was  strong  in  both  character  and  events, 
— a  dramatic  scene  of  action;  the  tale,  the  conclud 
ing  paragraphs  of  which  have  just  been  given,  is 
carefully  wrought  in  character  and  incident,  with 
discriminating  contrasts  and  finished  interior  scenes, 
but  its  strength  lies,  not  in  its  action,  but  in  its 
meaning ;  it  is  a  moral,  not  an  epic  tale.  Hawthorne, 
as  he  matured,  wrote,  as  it  were,  a  palimpsest ;  there 
was  a  hidden  writing  underneath  the  script,  and  the 
script  was  only  the  key  to  what  was  beneath.  He 
was,  to  this  extent,  indeed,  a  writer  of  allegory; 


90  HAWTHORNE 

but  this  would  be  an  incomplete  designation  of  his 
peculiar  art,  which  was  less  simple  than  direct  alle 
gory.  His  art  was,  in  fact,  abstract,  however  con 
crete  it  might  be  in  superficial  appearance;  there 
was  an  increasing  element  of  thought  in  it,  and  its 
significance  grew  with  this  element  and  his  subtle 
skill  in  handling  it ;  something  was  continually  being 
infused  into  description  and  incident,  which  fed 
them  with  meaning,  till  the  very  contents  of  the 
work  became  abstract, — one  was  in  the  presence  of 
thought  rather  than  mere  life.  In  other  words,  he 
had  worked  out  his  craftsmanship ;  he  had  made  the 
passage  from  sense  to  thought  without  loss  of  sharp 
ness  or  vividness,  and  presented  in  his  writings  truth 
in  place  of  facts, — that  is,  what  is  real  in  all  persons 
instead  of  one  only.  The  peculiarity  of  Haw-; 
thorne's  art  is  that  the  element  of  the  abstract  in 
it  is  so  engrossing  and  takes  so  imaginative  a  form. ' 
Such  a  temperament  as  Hawthorne's  is  apt,  in  its  I 
history,  to  lose  contact  with  art  and  become  ab 
sorbed  in  mere  thought,  to  be  simply  intellectualized. 
The  vigor  of  Hawthorne's  imagination,  howrever, — 
its  clear  visual  edge  or  eye  for  the  object,  and  his  in 
terest  in  sights  and  sounds, — withheld  him  from 
such  an  extreme ;  and,  indeed,  he  seems  to  have  been 
one  of  that  breed  of  thinkers  who  need  some  sub 
stance  to  think  in,  as  it  were, — that  physical  object 
in  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  did  so  often  think. 
To  do  his  thinking  so  is  the  salvation  of  an  artist. 
At  another  remove,  in  a  higher  region  of  thought, 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD    91 

the  mystic  thinks  in  the  symbol.  Hawthorne,  how 
ever,  was  not  a  true  symbolist :  he  was  a  plain  artist^ 

— with  the  senses,  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  an  art 
ist  ;  and  he  had,  to  an  uncommon  degree,  that  disin 
terestedness  which  is  thought  in  some  quarters  to 
be  so  valuable  a  trait  of  the  artist,  if  not,  indeed, 
indispensable.  As  an  observer,  in  his  note-books, 
it  is  noticeable  to  what  an  extent  he  simply  mirrored 
what  he  saw,  with  what  lucidity  he  gives  it  back. 
He  seems,  at  times,  to  be  only  such  a  mirror  of  life, 
giving  it  back  uncolored  by  his  personality,  as  a 
pure  medium.  There  was  a  negative  side  to  him, 
a  certain  irresponsiveness,  a  lack  of  interest,  a 
lethargy,  a  dulness;  one  looks  in  vain  in  his  career 
for  deep  convictions  or  any  enthusiasm  of  nature, 
and,  in  that  age  of  many  reforms  and  stirring  pub 
lic  interests,  his  apathy  is  the  more  noticeable;  the 
story  of  Blithedale  and  of  Brook  Farm  displays  him 
as  practically  untouched  by  the  moral  passions  of 
his  time. 

Such  aloofness  from  contemporary  affairs  does 
not  imply  any  lack  of  knowledge  of  them;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  abundantly  evident  that  Hawthorne 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  intellectual  movement 
about  him,  its  social  experiments  and  quasi-scientific 
affiliations,  such  as  Fourierism,  mesmerism  and  the 
minor  reforms  in  which  his  community  was  then 
so  prolific ;  but  these  things,  despite  his  natural  curi 
osity,  left  him  for  the  most  part  quite  unconcerned. 
A  certain  stolidity  of  temperament  was,  perhaps, 


92  HAWTHORNE 

fundamental  in  him;  at  all  events,  his  isolation, 
socially,  due  to  his  separation  from  the  world  in 
early  manhood  and  his  feeling  that  the  current  of 
life  had  left  him  thrown  aside,  had  generated  in 
him  a  sense  of  disengagement  from  the  world,  an 
attitude  as  if  he  were  concerned  only  as  an  observer 
of  life,  which  was  uncommonly  favorable  to  the 
mood  of  artistic  disinterestedness.  Whatever  was 
the  reason,  the  absence  of  vital  contemporary  inter 
ests  in  him  is  obvious,  and  a  capital  fact.  He  was 
a  pure  artist,  and  his  preferred  world  was  the  imag 
ination  ;  he  never  descended  from  it  and  departed  to 
mingle  in  the  matters  of  practical  life  at  the  Boston 
or  Salem  Custom  House,  or  at  Blithedale,  without 
falling  into  black  moods  of  discouragement  and  the 
homelessness  of  the  exile;  always,  at  the  touch  of 
the  world,  his  genius  froze.  Whether  he  dealt  with 
the  colonial  tradition  or  with  fables  of  his  own  in 
vention,  he  was  apart  from  the  current  realities 
about  him ;  he  gradually  freed  his  imagination  from 
the  aid  of  either  historic  or  contemporary  fact  in  the 
effort  to  enter  into  the  universal  world  of  pure  art, 
which  is  valid  without  regard  to  time  or  place. 

The  instrument  by  which  he  reached  this  develop 
ment  was  the  physical  image  in  various  modifica 
tions,  which  he  transmuted  into  ideas  of  moral  sig 
nificance  and  universal  import,  proper  to  that  world ; 
and  he  was  aided  in  accomplishing  this  by  his  disen 
gagement  for  long  periods  from  intimate  contact 
with  the  practical  world,  and  by  a  disinterestedness 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD    93 

of  temperament,  which  appears  to  have  been  native 
with  him.  Convictions,  except  of  a  primary  kind 
and  proceeding  from  an  indigenous  morality  in  his 
Puritan  heredity,  did  not  enter  into  his  work;  re 
form,  then  rampant  in  the  community,  did  not  de 
flect  his  art;  indeed,  it  may  fairly  be  said  that  he 
broadened  morals  more  than  morals  narrowed  him. 
He  made  the  Puritan,  for  all  his  isolation  in  the  wil 
derness,  a  world-figure  in  literary  art.  Puritanism, 
a  great  moral  phenomenon,  has  its  most  vivid  Amer 
ican  literary  record,  for  the  world,  in  his  work.  The 
lesser  moral  phenomena  of  his  own  time  left  slight 
traces  there,  comparatively  negligible,  as  in  the  story 
of  Blithedale.  Hawthorne's  undeniable  aloofness 
from  contemporary  life  was  thus  rather  a  matter  of 
his  biography  than  of  his  genius.  It  was,  indeed, 
favorable  to  his  genius,  a  truly  artistic  aloofness, 
however  undesigned  or  unwilling,  which  left  his 
eye  clear  and  his  mind  unpreoccupied  and  his  heart 
unprejudiced;  fundamentally  he  was  of  the  Puritan 
inheritance,  but  to  seek  any  more  particular  descrip 
tion  of  his  moral  affinity  with  his  own  age  would  be 
futile. 

Picturesque  aspects  and  romantic  episodes  of 
colonial  history,  the  legend  of  the  Indian,  the  pio 
neer  and  the  early  settler,  had  been  treated  descrip 
tively  and  at  times  poetized  by  the  greater  writers 
of  our  first  literary  awakening  in  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury.  In  Longfellow  and  Whittier  local  tradition 
in  New  England  had  found  its  scribes,  while  truly 


94  HAWTHORNE 

continental  themes  and  distant  regions  of  the  settle 
ment  had  occupied  the  former,  in  his  Indian  and 
Acadian  narratives.  The  fundamental  secular  myth 
of  history  had  thus  been  recorded,  defined  and  ex 
panded  in  imaginative  literature  with  ample  breadth 
by  both  poets  and  novelists.  The  distinction  of 
Hawthorne,  peculiarly,  was  not  that  he  was  the  most 
vivid  romanticist  among  the  many  who  fell  heir  to 
one  or  another  portion  of  the  Puritan  tradition  to 
which  he  most  gave  artistic  form  and  color,  but 
rather  that  he  penetrated  that  tradition  to  its  moral 
substance.  That  was  the  center  of  his  interest,  the 
very  kernel  of  his  meditation.  What  he  presented 
was  a  series  of  dramatic  episodes,  longer  or  shorter, 
more  or  less  loosely  bound  together,  but  they  were, 
besides,  moral  scenes.  The  spell  in  them,  which  he 
relied  on  for  fascination,  \vas  their  moral  meaning, 
—their  significance,  that  is,  to  the  life  of  the  soul. 
His  own  eye  obeyed  this  fascination;  and  though 
he  minded  well,  artist-like,  his  garniture  of  facts  in 
the  physical  world,  his  real  intent  was  to  bare  the 
spiritual  fact.  His  meditation  was  the  sounder  in 
that  it  worked  through  his  imagination,  his  mind 
still  thinking  in  the  image,  as  was  said  above;  but 
a  conclusion  of  thought,  in  however  imaginative  a 
shape,  was  the  end  in  view. 

It  is  this  prepossession  of  his  art  with  its  moral 
theme,  which  accounts  for  the  engrossing  interest  to 
him  of  the  abstract  element  in  his  method,  and  par 
ticularly  for  the  marked  exclusions  that  finally  char- 


HAWTHORNE'S   ARTISTIC   METHOD    95 

acterized  it.  His  interest  was  in  states  of  the  soul,— 
not  so  much  in  the  history  of  a  soul,  according  to 
the  Browning  formula,  but  the  states  through  which 
the  soul,  per  sc}  that  is,  by  its  own  nature,  passes 
under  the  experience  of  life.  To  state  it  negatively, 
he  took  the  slightest  interest  in  the  events  that  orig 
inally  occasioned  or  led  up  to  the  spiritual  crises  in 
volved,  and  he  cared  as  little  for  the  after  fortunes 
of  the  persons  in  whom  these  crises  arose ;  his  sense 
of  individual  life,  apart  from  its  illustrative  char 
acter,  is  feeble;  or,  in  other  words,  persons  did  not 
interest  him,  for,  under  no  other  supposition  can  one 
account  for  the  negligent  way  in  which  he  dismisses 
them,  at  the  end  of  the  play.  It  follows  that  action 
is  at  its  lowest  value  in  his  work,  which  finds  its 
theme  rather  in  the  results  of  the  action  in  the  soul 
and  their  sequence  there.  The  story  grows  more  and 
more  a  psychological  study,  general  in  essence,  of 
the  nature  of  evil,  or  sin,  in  the  soul's  experience, 
when  one  comes  to  the  core  of  Hawthorne's  interest 
in  human  life;  the  abstract  method  he  employs  re 
sults  in  a  meditative  vein  in  his  work  that  can  never 
be  disregarded  by  his  readers,  for  it  is  its  substantive 
part;  but,  it  should  be  said,  it  is  only  in  his  maturer 
tales  that  these  characteristics  become  plain  and 
commanding  elements.  Nevertheless  the  germ  of 
these  developments  can  be  clearly  observed  in  the 
short  stories  that  preceded  the  great  novels. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  COLONIAL  TRADITION 

THE  colonial  tradition  of  New  England,  as  a 
written  record,  exists  in  many  forms, — history, 
genealogy,  legend.  It  finds  in  Hawthorne  its  imag 
inative  form,  and  one  so  distinguished  by  his  genius 
that  it  bids  fair  to  be  the  great  literary  memorial  of 
that  age.  His  genius  was,  perhaps,  as  is  apt  to  be  the 
case,  an  excess  of  temperament;  and  his  peculiar 
rendering  of  the  "times  before"  results  from  the 
blend  of  his  native  instinct  for  the  moral  element  in 
life,  wherein  he  was  true  to  race,  with  his  artistic 
taste  for  a  romantic  investiture  of  it,  which  belonged 
rather  to  his  personality.  It  may  well  be  that  dif 
ferent  readers  will  be  aware  of  these  two  interests 
in  various  degrees;  to  one  his  tales  will  seem  full 
of  old  moralities,  to  another  full  of  old-fashioned 
scents  like  a  garden  of  long  ago,  and  to  a  very  few 
these  impressions  will  merge  in  one;  but  his  works 
will  bring  the  aroma  of  time  to  all.  Hawthorne  had 
an  idiosyncratic  power  to  gather  this  aroma,  and 
wrap  it  in  words.  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables 
by  its  very  name  proclaims  itself  a  nest  of  the  old 
tradition.  It  has  a  family  sound,  and  seems  to  con- 

96 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION         97 

centrate  in  itself  the  story  of  generations.  Indeed, 
one  might  better  call  the  tale  a  myth  than  a  novel ; 
for  it  rises,  as  a  myth  builds  itself  up,  out  of  secu 
lar  elements,  though  with  realistic  features.  \Yhile 
it  narrates  individual  lives  and  depicts  particular  cir 
cumstances,  it  recalls  a  whole  age.  It  signifies,  as 
one  reads,  not  a  group  of  little  lives,  but  a  long 
period,  an  era,  as  it  were.  Taken  in  its  obvious 
meaning,  it  is  true,  the  story  is  one  of  the  extinction 
of  a  family,  really  rather  a  slight  sketch  of  shabby 
gentility  worn  threadbare;  and  it  is  complicated  by 
the  shadow  of  a  crime  in  one  generation  and  an  an 
cestral  curse  in  another.  The  family  tale,  however, 
is  so  treated  as  to  generalize  a  community,  and  par 
ticularly  to  appeal  to  the  affections  of  an  old  race  for 
dying  things,  endeared  by  familiarity  in  youth.  The 
mould  of  decay  is  over  all  that  bygone  life;  the  sim 
plicity  of  its  ways  and  circumstances  deepens  its 
peculiar  pathos  and  gives  it  the  value  that  belongs  to 
an  old  man's  memories  of  his  early  days;  it  is  the 
past,  romantically  colored, — the  past  of  a  whole 
countryside, — that  comes  forth,  like  invisible  writ 
ing,  on  the  page.  - 

The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  in  unfolding 
the  story  of  the  family,  concentrates  attention  on 
the  situations  and  the  persons.  The  tale  moves  for 
ward  by  a  succession  of  set  scenes,  each  carefully 
elaborated,  as  if  for  its  own  sake,  and  the  whole 
thus  resembles  a  history  told  in  tableaux.  The  mo 
tive  spring  lies  far  in  the  background  of  events,  and 


98  HAWTHORNE 

the  method  of  construction  recalls  that  secret  his 
tory,  or  machination,  antecedent  to  the  story,  that 
Scott  sometimes  employed,  as  a  means  of  unravel 
ing  his  mystery.  Thus  the  ancestral  curse  of  witch 
craft  days  is  the  furthest  background  of  this  family 
history,  and  nearer  lies  a  second  background  in  the 
prison  life  of  Clifford,  who  is  the  male  protagonist 
of  the  household  drama.  Both  these,  in  which  the 
plot  of  implacable  fate  and  its  means  alike  are  to 
be  sought,  are  left  subordinate  and  in  shadow,  as 
was  Hawthorne's  way;  he  was  not  interested  in 
events,  but  in  states  of  mind.  He  throws  his  high 
lights  on  the  scenes  and  the  persons;  but  the  envel 
oping  plot,  with  its  romantic  accessories, — the  ances 
tral  curse,  the  mythical  "eastern  estate,"  the  prison 
of  Clifford, — he  leaves  subsidiary,  and  often  in  his 
narrative  hardly  more  than  suggested.  Places  and 
figures,  however,  scenes,  he  stages  with  exquisite 
care  for  their  subtleties,  their  refinement  and  signifi 
cance  to  the  eye  and  the  mind;  especially,  he  gives 
them  an  atmosphere  of  penetrating  old-time  reality; 
and  it  is  these  things,  in  the  main,  that  one  carries 
away  from  Hawthorne  in  mind  and  memory.  The 
local  flavor,  the  flavor  of  the  soil,  is  uncommonly 
strong,  too;  one  feels  that  these  are  things  that 
might  have  happened  in  Salem, — the  picturesque,  the 
pathetic,  the  sentimental  things  of  a  provincial,  al 
most  a  colonial  city,  of  long  ago.  This  union  of 
highly  developed  individuality  in  the  treatment,  with 
universal  human  significance  in  the  meaning,  is  the 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION         99 

mark  of  Hawthorne's  genius.    It  turned  a  parochial 
tale  into  a  national  memorial. 

It  seems  unlikely  to  the  analyst  of  Hawthorne's 
genius  that  there  was  much  method  in  its  madness. 
The  note-book,  with  which  the  reader  is  already 
familiar  from  the  preceding  chapters,  was  plainly  a 
seed-plot  from  which  whatever  was  fit  was  trans 
ferred  into  new  soil  as  from  a  nursery  garden.  This 
is  the  same  process  as  that  wrhich  accounts  for  "old 
Moodie"  in  The  Blithedale  Romance.  In  The 
House  of  the  Sei'en  Gables  it  accounts  for  the 
scene  of  the  hens.  "Uncle  Venner,"  with  his  fish- 
horn,  might  have  been  one  of  the  "Sights  from  a 
Steeple."  It  is  obvious,  too,  that  Hawthorne's  pro 
longed  apprenticeship  to  the  short  story  had  hard 
ened  a  literary  habit  in  him,  more  common  in  juve 
nile  than  in  mature  wrork.  He  had  become,  to  a 
certain  extent,  an  artist  in  miniature.  He  was  ac 
customed,  in  his  sketches  and  tales,  to  brief  spaces, 
narrow  horizons,  few  elements,  and  to  labor  on 
these  with  microscopic  attention  and  infinite  detail ; 
and  the  natural  result  was  that,  on  attempting  the 
larger  task  of  a  romance  or  novel,  he  fell  into  a 
method  of  agglomeration  in  art.  He  assembled  his 
materials,  as  the  phrase  goes  nowr,  and  they  were 
apt,  though  they  harmonized  well  enough,  not  to 
fuse  entirely.  The  t^le  of  T!J C  HQU-**  nfjjjf>  Seven 
Gables,  for  example,  is  threefold,— the  story  of  old 
Maule,  fr^ToT  Alice,__and  that  of  Clifford  and  his 
group;  but  they  are  separable :  parts ;  indeed,  a  later 


100  HAWTHORNE 

novelist  of  the  more  massive  sort  would  have  made 
three  narratives  of  the  matter.  Similarly  each 
scene,  as  it  comes  before  the  eye,  seems  a  thing 
apart,  as  it  were,  and  studied  for  itself.  One  is  not 
keenly  aware  of  the  vital  logic,  binding  the  parts; 
and  in  a  tale  of  hereditary  guilt,  this  is  a  defect  that 
would  greatly  impair  its  convincing  power,  were  it 
not  understood,  in  fact,  that  the  curse  is  really  an 
artistic  convention,  allowed  purely  for  the  sake  of 
the  story,  since,  otherwise,  the  story  could  not  go  on. 
In  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  the  convention 
is  the  more  readily  granted,  because  it  embodies  tra 
ditional  truth,  and  thus  gives  the  right  historical 
perspective  to  the  colonial  tale.  At  the  same  time, 
quite  apart  from  the  three  phases  of  the  curse,  the 
disparate  materials  of  the  story  give  the  impression 
of  miscellaneousness,  of  a  rather  varied  collection 
of  Hawthornesque  items.  The  truth  is  that  this  is 
characteristic  of  Hawthorne's  method,  in  his  larger 
works.  There  is  no  mother-idea  out  of  which  they 
develop,  with  a  single,  overpowering,  master  life  of 
their  own. 

The  small  scale  on  which  Hawthorne  had  been 
trained  to  work  not  only  gives  this  multiple,  miscel 
laneous  and  somewhat  uncorrelated  character  to  his 
novels,  but  it  underlies,  most  probably,  his  noticeable 
artistic  economy.  The  principle  of  economy  is,  in- 
\  deed,  fundamental  in  art,  and  happy  is  the  talent 
that  can  command  it  in  any  way  without  loss.  It 
may  be  the  very  flower  of  taste,  as  in  some  examples 


THE    COLONIAL   TRADITION'       101 

of  primitive  or  alien  art ;  or  it  may  only  mask  pov 
erty  of  invention  or  insight.  In  Hawthorne,  his 
habitual  use  of  few  characters  and  slight  incidents 
is,  perhaps,  due  to  the  early  restrictions  upon  him 
of  the  short  story  or  sketch,  shut  naturally  in  brief 
limits.  There  was  not  room  for  more.  And  the  rule 
is  the  same  for  prose  as  for  poetry:  the  briefer  the 
lyric,  the  greater  the  perfection  must  be,  both  of  sub 
stance  and  of  workmanship.  Thus  with  Hawthorne, 
dealing  habitually  with  few  and  slight  elements  in 
his  art,  elaboration  of  the  material  became  a  neces 
sity, — hence,  his  detail,  his  minutiae,  his  shading, 
and  all  that  exquisite  refinement  of  surface  and  del 
icacy  of  atmosphere  in  his  work.  His  economy  of 
material  reaches,  at  times,  almost  to  parsimony. 
And  here,  too,  one  is  reminded  of  his  garden  days  at 
Concord  and  the  forest  walks  at  Blithedale;  after  all 
is  said  in  his  beautiful  language,  of  the  fallen  au 
tumn  leaf  like  a  drop  of  blood,  the  mosquito  that 
was  frost-bitten,  and  the  gust  of  violets  along  a 
wood  road,  how  little  he  had  to  see !  The  elabora 
tion  of  it  in  observation,  in  imagination,  is  marvel 
ous;  but  to  find  artistic  value  in  that  countryside 
and  in  that  anaemic  life  of  the  decaying  gabled 
house  in  old  Salem,  what  eyes  he  must  have  had,  and 
what  insight !  The  parsimony  was  in  his  subject  and 
environment,  truly;  but  from  this  very  fact  he 
plucked  no  small  part  of  the  power  that  his  genius 
developed,  because  his  theme  almost  thrust  upon  him 
certain  qualities  of  observation  and  workmanship 


102  HAWTHORNE 

wherein  his  greatness,  as  a  writer,  came  to  lie.  He 
belonged,  in  a  certain  sense,  to  what  are  called  in 
the  history  of  art,  the  "little  masters,"  by  virtue  of 
these  qualities,  in  his  tales,  or  portions  of  his  ro 
mances,  done  on  a  small  scale ;  his  artistic  economies 
allied  him  to  their  mode  of  work;  and  this  manner, 
so  far  as  he  carried  it  over  into  his  longer  novels,  in 
jured  the  unity  of  impression  in  them  so  that  one  is 
apt  to  remember  particular  scenes  in  them  rather 
than  their  general  course  and  climax.  It  is  the 
scenes,  rather  than  the  plot  or  the  idea,  that  count; 
in  fact,  one  has  to  clarify  the  latter  by  thinking,  be 
fore  they  are  quite  clear.  On  the  other  hand,  one 
sees  the  successive  situations  with  great  vividness. 

In  other  words,  Hawthorne's  art,  in  its  greater 
examples,  at  least,  was  essentially  composite,  an  add 
ing  of  cell  to  cell.  This  method  allowed  him  to 
avail  himself  with  greater  ease  of  the  miscellaneous 
elements  of  his  rather  haphazard  New  England  up 
bringing  among  men  and  books.  His  mind  was  nat 
urally  acquisitive;  and,  however  lax  were  his  social 
instincts,  he  used  his  eyes  with  a  good  deal  of  inti 
macy  upon  their  objects.  He  really  absorbed  expe 
rience,  so  far  as  it  lay  in  the  purview  of  observation ; 
shy  and  solitary  as  he  was,  it  is  unlikely  that  any  one 
along  that  coast  was  more  accurately  familiar  with 
its  look  and  with  the  habits  and  thoughts  of  its  folk 
and  their  forefathers.  This  knowledge,  taken  in 
bulk,  was  his  race-inheritance,  whether  it  came  to 
him  by  direct  observation  of  the  things  and  people 


THE    COLONIAL   TRADITION        103 

where  he  lived  and  walked,  or  by  reading  the  homely 
memorials  of  the  wilderness  years  in  these  same 
places.  Eager  and  acute  to  see,  to  notice  and  to 
meditate  what  he  saw,  and  with  a  sympathetic 
genius  to  interpret  and  to  understand,  because  he 
was  of  the  blood  and  knew  the  common  past,  he  was 
an  ideal  historiographer  of  the  community;  but, 
besides,  there  was  added  to  his  blood  the  secret  drop 
of  artistic  genius  that  made  him  a  creator  instead  of 
a  recorder  of  life.  He  put  forth  his  works  as  things 
of  imagination  instead  of  chronicles,  but  their  sub 
stance  was  the  life  that  had  been  lived,  as  he  divined 
it  after  long  observation  and  meditation;  naturally 
there  were  many  phases  of  this  life,  many  peculiar 
ities,  many  thoughts,  and  in  taking  possession  of  the 
riches  of  this  inheritance  he  found  a  miscellany  of 
things.  A  composite  method  was  forced  upon  him. 
Hawthorne,  himself,  was  aware  of  the  greater 
kinship  between  him  and  the  story  of  the  old  Salem 
house  than  existed  in  his  other  works.  This  tale 
was  not  so  high-strung  in  imagination  and  moral 
feeling,  and  was  more  on  the  level  of  his  familiar 
days;  the  less  severe  parts  of  the  composition  are 
hardly  more  than  journalizing.  In  the  story  the 
things  of  the  eye  or  the  memory,  such  as  the  look 
of  streets  and  gardens  and  their  customary  incidents, 
come  easily,  and  almost  without  notice;  situa 
tion  and  dialogue,  on  the  contrary,  are  more  self- 
conscious,  and  the  legend  of  Alice  shows  imagi 
native  tension;  in  some  scenes  one  feels  that  they 


104  HAWTHORNE 

are  set,  and  the  death  of  the  judge,  wearisome  and 
forced  in  style,  is  positively  "staged,"  to  use  the 
critical  word;  but,  notwithstanding,  all  these  things 
proceed  naturally  from  Hawthorne's  cabinet  and 
tastes,  and  represent  the  contents  of  his  mind  and 
heart  more  fully  and  characteristically  than  his 
other  novels.  The  book  familiarizes  one  with  the 
author,  more  than  any  other  of  his  writings.  This, 
together  with  the  abiding  charm  of  the  old  life  it 
represents,  accounts  for  the  favor,  almost  the  affec 
tion,  in  which  it  is  held  by  lovers  of  Hawthorne, 
whatever  may  be  said  of  its  technique.  Technique 
is  the  excellence  of  the  understanding,  in  any  case. 
Technique  is  posterior  to  genius,  which  is  rather 
allied  to  what  used  to  fee  called  the  pure  reason,  and 
acts  by  intuition.  It  is  not  because  of  any  inferi 
ority  of  technique,  which  some  might  be  disposed 
to  see  in  the  miscellaneous  character  of  the  Salem 
story,  that  these  remarks  are  made;  but  rather  to 
illustrate  and  amplify  the  manner  in  which,  before 
the  golden  age  of  "technique,"  free  genius  found 
out  its  way. 

It  was  the  spirit  of  the  artist,  moving  in  the  mass 
of  inherited  legend  and  environment  which  was 
Hawthorne's  material,  that  compensated  for  any 
flaws  and  unconcerning  defects  in  his  work  and  gave 
it  the  fascination  that  has  assured  its  long  success. 
The  artistic  impulse  was  the  master  element  in  his 
genius  that  used  his  other  qualities  of  observation 
and  meditation  merely  as  media  of  the  creative  light. 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION       105 

It  is  curious  to  observe  this  artistic  instinct  at  work 
in  his  recurring  interest  in  the  fine  arts.  He  had  a 
cousinly  feeling  for  them,  a  predilection  that,  how 
ever,  was,  perhaps,  not  rare  in  the  New  England  of 
his  early  manhood,  but  was  significant,  rather,  of  its 
amateurish  and  awakening  culture.  One  remem 
bers  the  Salem  interest  in  "Flaxman's  designs,"  the 
reproduced  masterpieces  of  painting  on  Hawthorne's 
furniture,  the  visits  to  the  Boston  Athenaeum  treas 
ures,  in  his  American  years;  but,  particularly,  in 
connection  with  the  tales,  one  recalls  the  aquatic  fig 
ure  of  "Browne's  Wooden  Image,"  and  especially 
the  marvelous  mechanical  toy  of  "The  Artist  of  the 
Beautiful,"  with  its  profound  esthetic  meditation. 
How  frequent  and  how  various,  too,  is  his  use  of  the 
"portrait" !  The  portrait  was,  indeed,  a  common 
romantic  property,  and  often  called  into  requisition 
in  many  lands.  Hawthorne,  like  others,  obeyed  its 
fascinating  eyes,  and  continually  resorted  to  it  for 
imaginative  effect.  In  the  "House  of  Seven  Gables" 
itself,  the  portrait  has  a  place  of  honor,  with  the 
deed  of  the  "eastern  estate,"  secreted  behind  it 
in  the  wainscot,  it  will  be  remembered,  and  is, 
in  fact,  the  symbolic  embodiment  of  the  old  ances 
tral  curse  of  the  Pyncheon  house.  But,  in  Haw 
thorne's  work,  the  portrait  was  much  more  than  a 
common  romantic  property.  It  indicated,  by  his  re 
peated  use  of  it  and  in  connection  with  other  like 
matters,  an  underlying  artistic  impulse  and  inclina 
tion  to  the  beautiful  in  its  pure  forms  that  was 


106  HAWTHORNE 

fundamental  in  his  genius.  More  than  the  observer 
or  the  moralist  whom  he  is  easily  seen  to  be,  he  was 
born  an  artist;  by  native  endowment,  and  by  the 
conditions,  the  impulse  was  loosed  in  literature,  and 
resulted  in  an  even  more  delicate,  richer  and  more 
profound  beauty  in  the  expression  of  life  by  imagi 
nation,  thought  and  the  charm  of  words;  but  the 
essentially  esthetic  quality  of  Hawthorne's  genius 
is,  perhaps,  more  apparent  at  first  by  his  obvious 
cousinship  in  spirit  with  the  wood-carver,  the  butter 
fly  maker,  the  painter  and  the  sculptor,  from  first 
to  last.  He  was,  at  least,  a  brother  of  all  the  crafts. 
This  artistic  impulse  led  him  to  study  and  arrange 
his  material  in  detail,  and  to  give  the  peculiarly  ex 
quisite  finish  that  distinguishes  his  literary  touch; 
but,  in  larger  ways,  it  also  taught  him  the  sense  of 
the  enveloping  harmonies  within  which  a  whole 
work  of  art  is  contained, — must,  in  fact,  be  con 
tained;  and  to  this  instinct  and  sense  must  be  at 
tributed  the  numerous  reduplications,  echoes  and 
gradations  that  combine  to  make  up  his  major  ef 
fects  and  to  unify  them.  Composite  as  his  art  is, 
a  higher  harmony  enfolds  its  elements  and  reconciles 
them.  This  is  due  to  his  being,  primarily,  an  artist 
in  imaginative  work, — a  creator,  as  has  been  said, 
more  than  an  observer  or  a  moralist. 

In  the  substance  of  his  work,  apart  from  the  qual 
ity  and  coloring  of  his  material,  Hawthorne  was, 
preeminently,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  a  psychologist. 
His  place  was  on  that  fall  of  the  wave,  just  beyond 


THE    COLONIAL   TRADITION        107 

the  crest  of  a  literary  movement,  when,  action  and 
even  character  being  exhausted  as  major  themes, 
interest  centers  in  analysis  of  motives,  growths  and 
conditions,  that  is,  in  the  inner  rather  than  the  outer 
history  of  human  nature,  the  underlying  grounds  of 
both  action  and  character.  In  this  development  he 
anticipated  the  taste  of  the  next  age,  and  illustrated 
in  fiction  the  vein  of  intellectual  subtlety  character 
istic  of  New  England  culture  from  Edwards  to 
Emerson.  He  did  this  without  intention,  without 
much  thinking  about  it,  as  the  rhodora  blooms ;  sim 
ply  it  belonged  to  the  soil  to  bloom  so.  The  old  re 
ligion  had  made  brooding  on  human  nature,  and 
especially  its  moral  phases,  almost  congenital  in  the 
race,  and  the  habit  had  been  intensified  in  Haw 
thorne  by  his  situation  in  his  maturing  years;  the 
secret  alike  of  his  meditation  and  of  his  observation 
was  the  lonely  life  of  an  active  mind.  His  heredity 
concentrated  his  interest  on  the  moral  world;  and 
being  the  child  of  that  civilization,  thinking  over  and 
ruminating  its  old  thoughts,  Hawthorne  naturally 
found  his  deeper  mental  life  a  meditation  on  sin, 
especially  on  the  ways  of  evil  with  a  man,  its  work 
ing  in  the  breast  and  its  results.  In  The  House  of 
the  Seven  Gables  it  is  evil  in  the  form  of  an  in 
herited  curse  rather  than  in  the  individual,  it  is  true, 
— vengeance  long  drawn  out ;  or,  if  vengeance  be  too 
strong  an  expression,  it  is  retribution,  penalty,  the 
inexorable  debt  that  must  be  paid  with  time.  The 
theme,  the  idea,  is  of  the  Puritan  moral  scheme — - 


108  HAWTHORNE 

especially  in  the  element  of  inheritance  involved — 
and  thus  was  native  to  Hawthorne ;  but  in  his  genera 
tion  its  reality  was  hardly  sufficiently  felt  to  make  it 
effective  in  fiction  without  a  delicate  touch  and  much 
management.  At  the  end,  indeed,  the  inherited  curse 
of  the  house  is  the  most  tenuous  part  of  the  tale, 
while  the  entirely  human  character  of  Hepzibah 
stands  clear  in  the  foreground. 

Hawthorne's  pro  founder  moral  work,  in  fact,  is 
to  be  found  elsewhere.  In  this  tale  he  was  distracted 
from  the  main  theme  of  sin,  in  human  nature,  by 
the  half-romantic  attraction  of  the  curse,  clinging  to 
generation  after  generation,  till  it  was  finally  solved 
in  new  lives;  and  he  was  also  diverted  from  too 
serious  a  view  by  the  fascination  of  the  environment 
and  atmosphere  of  old  Salem,  as  it  was  known  to  his 
sympathies.  The  curse,  after  all,  even  in  the  very 
home  of  the  witches,  had  come  to  be  "an  old  wives' 
tale";  try  to  vivify  it  as  he  might,  Hawthorne  could 
not  make  it  credible  as  other  than  a  romantic  back 
ground,  fitting  the  locality  and  the  figures ;  but  this 
relaxation  of  the  moral  fiber  of  the  story  left  more 
ample  room,  in  which  to  unfold  its  gentle  and  hum 
ble  humanity.  It  is,  indeed,  a  lifeless  life,  a  faded 
bloom,  that  is  disclosed  in  the  old  and  shut-up  house. 
All  things  have  left  it  but  an  old  sister's  love;  and 
hither,  late  in  her  years,  comes  back  the  broken  fa 
vorite  brother,  released  from  his  unjust  prison.  They 
are  victims  of  life,  these  two.  The  curse  is  but  a 
story  in  their  dimmed  memories — how  can  it  be 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION       109 

thought  to  account  for  their  lives  ? — but,  for  all  that, 
one  way  and  another,  their  lives  are  ruined.  Hepzi- 
bah,  the  weary  watcher  of  many  years,  is  expecting 
her  brother,  and  has  made  what  feeble  preparation 
she  can  for  their  common  support  by  setting  up  the 
famous  "cent-shop"  in  the  basement  story: 

"It  has  already  been  observed,  that,  in  the  base 
ment  story  of  the  gable  fronting  on  the  street,  an 
unworthy  ancestor,  nearly  a  century  ago,  had  fitted 
up  a  shop.  Ever  since  the  old  gentleman  retired 
from  trade,  and  fell  asleep  under  his  coffin-lid,  not 
only  the  shop-door,  but  the  inner  arrangements,  had 
been  suffered  to  remain  unchanged;  while  the  dust 
of  ages  gathered  inch-deep  over  the  shelves  and 
counter,  and  partly  filled  an  old  pair  of  scales,  as  if 
it  were  of  value  enough  to  be  weighed.  It  treasured 
itself  up,  too,  in  the  half-open  till,  where  there  still 
lingered  a  base  sixpence,  worth  neither  more  nor 
less  than  the  hereditary  pride  which  had  here  been 
put  to  shame.  Such  had  been  the  state  and  condi 
tion  of  the  little  shop  in  old  Hepzibah's  childhood, 
when  she  and  her  brother  used  to  play  at  hide- 
and-seek  in  its  forsaken  precincts.  So  it  had  re 
mained,  until  within  a  few  days  past. 

"But  now,  though  the  shop-window  was  still 
closely  curtained  from  the  public  gaze,  a  remark 
able  change  had  taken  place  in  its  interior.  The 
rich  and  heavy  festoons  of  cobweb,  which  it  had  cost 
a  long  ancestral  succession  of  spiders  their  life's 


110  HAWTHORNE 

labor  to  spin  and  weave,  had  been  carefully  brushed 
away  from  the  ceiling.  The  counter,  shelves,  and 
floor  had  all  been  scoured,  and  the  latter  was  over- 
strewn  with  fresh  blue  sand.  The  brown  scales, 
too,  had  evidently  undergone  rigid  discipline,  in  an 
unavailing  effort  to  rub  off  the  rust,  which,  alas! 
had  eaten  through  and  through  their  substance. 
Neither  was  the  little  old  shop  any  longer  empty 
of  merchantable  goods.  A  curious  eye,  privileged 
to  take  an  account  of  stock,  and  investigate  behind 
the  counter,  would  have  discovered  a  barrel, — yea, 
two  or  three  barrels  and  half  ditto, — one  containing 
flour,  another  apples,  and  a  third,  perhaps,  Indian 
meal.  There  was  likewise  a  square  box  of  pine- 
wood,  full  of  soap  in  bars;  also,  another  of  the 
same  size,  in  which  were  tallow-candles,  ten  to  the 
pound.  A  small  stock  of  brown  sugar,  some  white 
beans  and  split  peas,  and  a  few  other  commodities 
of  low  price,  and  such  as  are  constantly  in  demand, 
made  up  the  bulkier  portion  of  the  merchandise.  It 
might  have  been  taken  for  a  ghostly  or  phantasma 
goric  reflection  of  the  old  shop-keeper  Pyncheon's 
shabbily  provided  shelves,  save  that  some  of  the 
articles  were  of  a  description  and  outward  form 
which  could  hardly  have  been  known  in  his  day. 
For  instance,  there  was  a  glass  pickle- jar  filled  with 
fragments  of  Gibraltar  rock;  not,  indeed,  splinters 
of  the  veritable  stone  foundation  of  the  famous 
fortress,  but  bits  of  delectable  candy,  neatly  done 
up  in  white  paper.  Jim  Crow,  moreover,  was  seen 


THE    COLONIAL   TRADITION       111 

executing  his  world-renowned  dance,  in  ginger 
bread.  A  party  of  leaden  dragoons  were  galloping 
along  one  of  the  shelves,  in  equipments  and  uniform 
of  modern  cut;  and  there  were  some  sugar  figures, 
with  no  strong  resemblance  to  the  humanity  of  any 
epoch,  but  less  unsatisfactorily  representing  our 
own  fashions  than  those  of  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Another  phenomenon,  still  more  strikingly  modern, 
was  a  package  of  lucifer  matches,  which,  in  old 
times,  would  have  been  thought  actually  to  borrow 
their  instantaneous  flame  from  the  nether  fires  of 
Tophet. 

"In  short,  to  bring  the  matter  at  once  to  a  point, 
it  was  incontrovertibly  evident  that  somebody  had 
taken  the  shop  and  fixtures  of  the  long- retired  and 
forgotten  Mr.  Pyncheon,  and  was  about  to  renew 
the  enterprise  of  that  departed  worthy,  with  a  dif 
ferent  set  of  customers.  Who  could  this  bold  ad 
venturer  be?  And,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  why 
had  he  chosen  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  as 
the  scene  of  his  commercial  speculations? 

"We  retuni  to  the  elderly  maiden.  She  at  length 
withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  dark  countenance  of 
the  Colonel's  portrait,  heaved  a  sigh, — indeed,  her 
breast  was  a  very  cave  of  yEolus  that  morning, — 
and  stept  across  the  room  on  tiptoe,  as  is  the  cus 
tomary  gait  of  elderly  women.  Passing  through 
an  intervening  passage,  she  opened  a  door  that  com 
municated  with  the  shop,  just  now  so  elaborately 
described.  Owing  to  the  projection  of  the  upper 


112  HAWTHORNE 

story — and  still  more  to  the  thick  shadow  of  the 
Pyncheon  Elm,  which  stood  almost  directly  in  front 
of  the  gable — the  twilight,  here,  was  still  as  much 
akin  to  night  as  morning.  Another  heavy  sigh  from 
Miss  Hepzibah!  After  a  moment's  pause  on  the 
threshold,  peering  towards  the  window  with  her 
near-sighted  scowl,  as  if  frowning  down  some  bitter 
enemy,  she  suddenly  projected  herself  into  the  shop. 
The  haste,  and,  as  it  were,  the  galvanic  impulse  of 
the  movement,  were  really  quite  startling. 

"Nervously — in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  we  might  almost 
say — she  began  to  busy  herself  in  arranging  some 
children's  playthings,  and  other  little  wares,  on  the 
shelves  and  at  the  shop-window.  In  the  aspect  of 
this  dark-arrayed,  pale-faced,  lady-like  old  figure 
there  was  a  deeply  tragic  character  that  contrasted 
irreconcilably  with  the  ludicrous  pettiness  of  her 
employment.  It  seemed  a  queer  anomaly,  that  so 
gaunt  and  dismal  a  personage  should  take  a  toy  in 
hand;  a  miracle,  that  the  toy  did  not  vanish  in  her 
grasp;  a  miserably  absurd  idea,  that  she  should 
go  on  perplexing  her  stiff  and  sombre  intellect  w7ith 
the  question  how  to  tempt  little  boys  into  her  prem 
ises  !  Yet  such  is  undoubtedly  her  object.  Now  she 
places  a  gingerbread  elephant  against  the  window, 
but  with  so  tremulous  a  touch  that  it  tumbles  upon 
the  floor,  with  the  dismemberment  of  three  legs  and 
its  trunk;  it  has  ceased  to  be  an  elephant,  and  has 
become  a  few  bits  of  musty  gingerbread.  There, 
again,  she  has  upset  a  tumbler  of  marbles,  all  of 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION       113 

which  roll  different  ways,  and  each  individual  mar 
ble,  devil-directed,  into  the  most  difficult  obscurity 
that  it  can  find.  Heaven  help  our  poor  old  Hepzi- 
bah,  and  forgive  us  for  taking  a  ludicrous  view  of 
her  position!  As  her  rigid  and  rusty  frame  goes 
down  upon  its  hands  and  knees,  in  quest  of  the  ab 
sconding  marbles,  we  positively  feel  so  much  the 
more  inclined  to  shed  tears  of  sympathy,  from  the 
very  fact  that  we  must  needs  turn  aside  and  laugh 
at  her.  For  here, — and  if  we  fail  to  impress  it 
suitably  upon  the  reader,  it  is  our  own  fault,  not  that 
of  the  theme, — here  is  one  of  the  truest  points  of 
melancholy  interest  that  occur  in  ordinary  life.  It 
was  the  final  throe  of  what  called  itself  old  gentility. 
A  lady — \vho  had  fed  herself  from  childhood  with 
the  shadowy  food  of  aristocratic  reminiscences,  and 
whose  religion  it  was  that  a  lady's  hand  soils  itself 
irremediably  by  doing  aught  for  bread — this  born 
lady,  after  sixty  years  of  narrowing  means,  is  fain 
to  step  down  from  her  pedestal  of  imaginary  rank. 
Poverty,  treading  closely  at  her  heels  for  a  lifetime, 
has  come  up  with  her  at  last.  She  must  earn  her 
own  food,  or  starve!  And  we  have  stolen  upon 
Miss  Hepzibah  Pyncheon,  too  irreverently,  at  the 
instant  of  time  when  the  patrician  lady  is  to  be  trans 
formed  into  a  plebeian  woman. 

"In  this  republican  country,  amid  the  fluctuating 
waves  of  our  social  life,  somebody  is  always  at  the 
drowning-point.  The  tragedy  is  enacted  with  as 
continual  a  repetition  as  that  of  a  popular  drama  on 


114  HAWTHORNE 

a  holiday;  and,  nevertheless,  is  felt  as  deeply,  per 
haps,  as  when  an  hereditary  noble  sinks  below  his 
order.  More  deeply;  since,  with  us,  rank  is  the 
grosser  substance  of  wealth  and  a  splendid  estab 
lishment,  and  has  no  spiritual  existence  after  the 
death  of  these,  but  dies  hopelessly  along  with  them. 
And,  therefore,  since  we  have  been  unfortunate 
enough  to  introduce  our  heroine  at  so  inauspicious 
a  juncture,  we  would  entreat  for  a  mood  of  due 
solemnity  in  the  spectators  of  her  fate.  Let  us  be 
hold,  in  poor  Hepzibah,  the  immemorial  lady, — two 
hundred  years  old,  on  this  side  of  the  water,  and 
thrice  as  many  on  the  other, — writh  her  antique  por 
traits,  pedigrees,  coats  of  arms,  records  and  tradi 
tions,  and  her  claim,  as  joint  heiress,  to  that  princely 
territory  at  the  eastward,  no  longer  a  wilderness, 
but  a  populous  fertility, — born,  too,  in  Pyncheon 
Street,  under  the  Pyncheon  Elm,  and  in  the  Pyn 
cheon  House,  where  she  has  spent  all  her  days, — 
reduced  now,  in  that  very  house,  to  be  the  huck- 
steress  of  a  cent-shop. 

"This  business  of  setting  up  a  petty  shop  is  almost 
the  only  resource  of  women,  in  circumstances  at  all 
similar  to  those  of  our  unfortunate  recluse.  With 
her  near-sightedness,  and  those  tremulous  fingers  of 
hers,  at  once  inflexible  and  delicate,  she  could  not 
be  a  seamstress;  although  her  sampler,  of  fifty  years 
gone  by,  exhibited  some  of  the  most  recondite  speci 
mens  of  ornamental  needlework.  A  school  for  lit 
tle  children  had  been  often  in  her  thoughts;  and,  at 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION       115 

one  time,  she  had  begun  a  review  of  her  early 
studies  in  the  New  England  Primer,  with  a  view 
to  prepare  herself  for  the  office  of  instructress.  But 
the  love  of  children  had  never  quickened  in  Hepzi- 
bah's  heart,  and  was  now  torpid,  if  not  extinct;  she 
watched  the  little  people  of  the  neighborhood  from 
her  chamber-window,  and  doubted  whether  she 
could  tolerate  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with 
them.  Besides,  in  our  day,  the  very  ABC  has  be 
come  a  science  greatly  too  abstruse  to  be  any  longer 
taught  by  pointing  a  pin  from  letter  to  letter.  A 
modern  child  could  teach  old  Hepzibah  more  than 
old  Hepzibah  could  teach  the  child.  So — with  many 
a  cold,  deep  heart-quake  at  the  idea  of  at  last  coming 
into  sordid  contact  with  the  world,  from  which  she 
had  so  long  kept  aloof,  while  every  added  day 
of  seclusion  had  rolled  another  stone  against  the 
cavern-door  of  her  hermitage — the  poor  thing  be 
thought  herself  of  the  ancient  shop- window,  the 
rusty  scales,  and  dusty  till.  She  might  have  held 
back  a  little  longer;  but  another  circumstance,  not 
yet  hinted  at,  had  somewhat  hastened  her  decision. 
Her  humble  preparations,  therefore,  were  duly  made, 
and  the  enterprise  was  now  to  be  commenced.  Nor 
was  she  entitled  to  complain  of  any  remarkable  sin 
gularity  in  her  fate;  for,  in  the  town  of  her  nativity, 
we  might  point  to  several  little  shops  of  a  similar 
description,  some  of  them  in  houses  as  ancient  as 
that  of  the  Seven  Gables;  and  one  or  two,  it  may 
be,  where  a  decayed  gentlewoman  stands  behind  the 


116  HAWTHORNE 

counter,  as  grim  an  image  of  family  pride  as  Miss 
Hepzibah  Pyncheon  herself. 

"It  was  overpoweringly  ridiculous — we  must  hon 
estly  confess  it — the  deportment  of  the  maiden  lady 
while  setting  her  shop  in  order  for  the  public  eye. 
She  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  window,  as  cautiously  as  if 
she  conceived  some  bloody-minded  villain  to  be 
watching  behind  the  elm-tree,  with  intent  to  take 
her  life.  Stretching  out  her  long,  lank  arm,  she 
put  a  paper  of  pearl  buttons,  a  jew's-harp,  or  what 
ever  the  small  article  might  be,  in  its  destined  place, 
and  straightway  vanished  back  into  the  dusk,  as  if 
the  world  need  never  hope  for  another  glimpse  of 
her.  It  might  have  been  fancied,  indeed,  that  she 
expected  to  minister  to  the  wants  of  the  community 
unseen,  like  a  disembodied  divinity  or  enchantress, 
holding  forth  her  bargains  to  the  reverential  and 
awe-stricken  purchaser  in  an  invisible  hand.  But 
Hepzibah  had  no  such  flattering  dream.  She  was 
well  aware  that  she  must  ultimately  come  forward, 
and  stand  revealed  in  her  proper  individuality ;  but, 
like  other  sensitive  persons,  she  could  not  bear  to  be 
observed  in  the  gradual  process,  and  chose  rather  to 
flash  forth  on  the  world's  astonished  gaze  at  once. 

"The  inevitable  moment  was  not  much  longer  to 
be  delayed.  The  sunshine  might  now  be  seen  steal 
ing  down  the  front  of  the  opposite  house,  from  the 
windows  of  which  came  a  reflected  gleam,  strug 
gling  through  the  boughs  of  the  elm-tree,  and  en 
lightening  the  interior  of  the  shop  more  distinctly 


THE    COLONIAL   TRADITION       117 

than  heretofore.  The  town  appeared  to  be  waking 
up.  A  baker's  cart  had  already  rattled  through  the 
street,  chasing  away  the  latest  vestige  of  night's 
sanctity  with  the  jingle-jangle  of  its  dissonant  bells. 
A  milkman  was  distributing  the  contents  of  his 
cans  from  door  to  door;  and  the  harsh  peal  of  a 
fisherman's  conch  shell  was  heard  far  off,  around 
the  corner.  None  of  these  tokens  escaped  Hepzi- 
bah's  notice.  The  moment  had  arrived.  To  delay 
longer  would  be  only  to  lengthen  out  her  misery. 
Nothing  remained,  except  to  take  down  the  bar  from 
the  shop-door,  leaving  the  entrance  free — more  than 
free — welcome,  as  if  all  were  household  friends — 
to  every  passerby,  whose  eyes  might  be  attracted 
by  the  commodities  at  the  window.  This  last  act 
Hepzibah  now  performed,  letting  the  bar  fall  with 
what  smote  upon  her  excited  nerves  as  a  most 
astounding  clatter.  Then — as  if  the  only  barrier 
betwixt  herself  and  the  world  had  been  thrown 
down,  and  a  flood  of  evil  consequences  would  come 
tumbling  through  the  gap — she  fled  into  the  inner 
parlor,  threw  herself  into  the  ancestral  elbow-chair, 
and  wept." 

Dear  old  Hepzibah!  What  loving  kindness  she 
had!  It  was  likely  to  be  a  strange  adventure  for 
her;  but  she  took  the  castaway  of  life  into  her  boat, 
frail  craft  that  it  was,  for  the  end  of  the  voyage. 

The  book  is  full  of  such  realistic  scenes  minutely 
studied  from  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 


118  HAWTHORNE 

tury  in  the  neighborhoods  that  Hawthorne  knew. 
They  give  up  their  full  local  flavor,  doubtless,  only 
to  those  who  can  recall  the  marvelous  views  on  old- 
fashioned  wall-papers  at  Salem,  the  stately,  white 
bannisters  and  paneled  walls  of  the  houses  of  that 
spacious  era,  just  subsequent  to  the  Revolution,  the 
box-bordered  walks  of  the  trim  back-gardens,  the 
sunshine-flooded  tulips,  the  scented  breath  of  the 
spearmint  patch!  Provincial  life,  if  it  has,  in  the 
main,  private  delights  and  a  charm  incommunicable 
except  to  the  native-born,  owns  also,  since  Theocri 
tus,  something  of  pastoral  magic  for  all  the  world. 
The  rural  scene,  the  rustic  tale  are,  perhaps,  the  com 
moner  and  grosser  forms  in  which  the  spell  is  woven 
in  our  generation,  and  especially  the  novel  of  the 
provinces,  with  a  touch  of  dialect  in  speech  as  well 
as  in  manners,  is  to  the  fore ;  but  the  magic  needs  no 
shepherd's  tale  nor  idyllic  poetry  to  find  a  home  in 
the  heart,  for,  after  all,  the  best  magic  is  unadulter 
ated  human  nature,  wherever  found.  Dwellers  in 
cities,  too,  and  people  in  country  houses  have  their 
chronicles,  their  "life  of  the  province/'  as  many 
modern  writers  of  fiction  bear  witness  in  all  lan 
guages.  The  type  fascinates  certain  hearts  in  all 
lands;  and  in  the  streets  of  old  Salern  it  found  a 
wonderful  soil,  and  a  wonderful  genius. 

The  old  town  lives  again  in  these  pages,  if  indeed 
so  feeble  a  flow  may  be  called  life.  The  anaemia  of 
the  book  pervades  it;  for  its  points  of  crisis  are  the 
death- throes  of  the  lives  that  are  dying,  the  old 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION       119 

curse  wearing  itself  out;  while  the  fresh  lives,  the 
new  blood,  in  Phoebe,  the  niece,  and  her  lover,  the 
daguerreotypist,  are  used  only  as  background  and  epi 
sode.  The  most  vital  part  is  the  reproduction  of  the 
general  scene,  the  manners  and  customs,  the  little 
incidents,  the  way  life  went  on.  The  first  customer, 
a  small  fellow  of  the  neighborhood,  enters  the  shop, 
making  the  warning  bell  ring,  with  an  effect  of  real, 
waking  life,  comparable  only  to  the  knocking  at  the 
gate  in  Macbeth.  It  is  amazing,  what  a  noise  he 
makes !  How  he  seems  to  set  the  world  going ! 
What  boyhood  memories  he  unlocks !  Gibraltars 
and  black-jacks!  Those  gingerbread  elephants! 
Those  lead  soldiers !  Yet  to  wrhat  end  is  this  inrush 
of  youthful  spirits,  or  of  the  more  mature  young 
womanhood  and  young  manhood  in  the  maiden 
sweetness  of  Phoebe  and  the  democratic  "newness" 
of  the  daguerreotypist?  They  may  begin  a  new 
story,  but  they  will  never  carry  on  the  tale  of  the 
old  house;  at  the  end  of  that  tale,  the  old  house  will 
be  dead,  and  every  step  is  toward  the  catastrophe. 
It  is  as  if  one  were  witnessing  an  execution. 
It  is  this  temperament  of  the  book,  this  atmosphere 
pervading  it,  this  irremediableness  in  misery,  after 
all,  however  caused,  that  imbues  it  with  somber- 
ness.  It  is  only  in  this  impression  that  the  fatal  ele 
ment  in  the  curse  is  truly  felt.  Though  one  disbe 
lieves  in  the  reality  of  the  curse,  he  can  not 
altogether  escape  from  it  in  the  imagination. 
There  are  ghosts  in  the  old  house,  whatever  one  be- 


120  HAWTHORNE 

lieves.  The  voices  of  the  lovers,  the  call-bell  of  the 
little  boy,  Uncle  Venner's  fish-horn  do  not  drive 
them  away;  and,  meanwhile,  as  it  were  in  their 
presence,  the  old-time  village  life  goes  on.  Hepzi- 
bah  gets  the  breakfast  of  broiled  mackerel,  and 
Clifford,  "the  guest,"  descends  the  stairs  to  his  first 
meal  "at  home,"  as  if  there  were  no  ghosts  there, 
barkening  in  the  corners  and  peering  from  the  old 
Colonel's  portrait. 

"Hepzibah's  small  and  ancient  table,  supported  on 
its  slender  and  graceful  legs,  and  covered  with  a 
cloth  of  the  richest  damask,  looked  worthy  to  be 
the  scene  and  centre  of  one  of  the  cheerfullest  of 
parties.  The  vapor  of  the  broiled  fish  arose  like  in 
cense  from  the  shrine  of  a  barbarian  idol,  while  the 
fragrance  of  the  Mocha  might  have  gratified  the 
nostrils  of  a  tutelary  Lar,  or  whatever  power  has 
scope  over  a  modern  breakfast-table.  Phoebe's  In 
dian  cakes  were  the  sweetest  offering  of  all, — in 
their  hue  befitting  the  rustic  altars  of  the  innocent 
and  golden  age, — or,  so  brightly  yellow  were  they, 
resembling  some  of  the  bread  which  was  changed 
to  glistening  gold  when  Midas  tried  to  eat  it.  The 
butter  must  not  be  forgotten, — butter  which  Phoebe 
herself  had  churned,  in  her  own  rural  home,  and 
brought  it  to  her  cousin  as  a  propitiatory  gift, — 
smelling  of  clover-blossoms,  and  diffusing  the 
charm  of  pastoral  scenery  through  the  dark-pan 
elled  parlor.  All  this,  with  the  quaint  gorgeousness 


THE    COLONIAL    TRADITION       121 

of  the  old  china  cups  and  saucers,  and  the  crested 
spoons,  and  a  silver  cream-jug  (Hepzibah's  only 
other  article  of  plate,  and  shaped  like  the  rudest 
porringer),  set  out  a  board  at  which  the  stateliest 
of  old  Colonel  Pyncheon's  guests  need  not  have 
scorned  to  take  his  place.  But  the  Puritan's  face 
scowled  down  out  of  the  picture,  as  if  nothing  on 
the  table  pleased  his  appetite. 


"  'Hush  r  whispered  Hepzibah.  'Be  cheerful ! 
whatever  may  happen,  be  nothing  but  cheerful  F 

"The  final  pause  at  the  threshold  proved  so  long, 
that  Hepzibah,  unable  to  endure  the  suspense, 
rushed  forward,  threw  open  the  door,  and  led  in 
the  stranger  by  the  hand.  At  the  first  glance, 
Phoebe  saw  an  elderly  personage,  in  an  old-fash 
ioned  dressing-gown,  of  faded  damask,  and  wearing 
his  gray  or  almost  white  hair  of  an  unusual  length. 
It  quite  overshadowed  his  forehead,  except  when 
he  thrust  it  back,  and  stared  vaguely  about  the  room. 
After  a  very  brief  inspection  of  his  face,  it  was 
easy  to  conceive  that  his  footstep  must  necessarily 
be  such  an  one  as  that  which,  slowly,  and  with  as 
indefinite  an  aim  as  a  child's  first  journey  across  a 
floor,  had  just  brought  him  hitherward.  Yet  there 
were  no  tokens  that  his  physical  strength  might  not 
have  sufficed  for  a  free  and  determined  gait.  It 
was  the  spirit  of  the  man  that  could  not  walk.  The 
expression  of  his  countenance — while,  notwithstand- 


122  HAWTHORNE 

ing,  it  had  the  light  of  reason  in  it — seemed  to 
waver,  and  glimmer,  and  nearly  to  die  away,  and 
feebly  to  recover  itself  again.  It  was  like  a  flame 
which  we  see  twinkling  among  half -extinguished 
embers;  we  gaze  at  it  more  intently  than  if  it  were 
a  positive  blaze,  gushing  vividly  upward, — more  in 
tently,  but  with  a  certain  impatience,  as  if  it  ought 
either  to  kindle  itself  into  satisfactory  splendor,  or 
be  at  once  extinguished. 

"For  an  instant  after  entering  the  room,  the  guest 
stood  still,  retaining  Hepzibah's  hand,  instinctively, 
as  a  child  does  that  of  the  grown  person  who  guides 
it.  He  saw  Phoebe,  however,  and  caught  an  illum 
ination  from  her  youthful  and  pleasant  aspect, 
which,  indeed,  threw  a  cheerfulness  about  the  par 
lor,  like  the  circle  of  reflected  brilliancy  around  the 
glass  vase  of  flowers  that  was  standing  in  the  sun 
shine.  He  made  a  salutation,  or,  to  speak  nearer 
the  truth,  an  ill-defined,  abortive  attempt  at  cour 
tesy.  Imperfect  as  it  was,  however,  it  conveyed  an 
idea,  or,  at  least,  gave  a  hint,  of  indescribable  grace, 
such  as  no  practised  art  of  external  manners  could 
have  attained.  It  was  too  slight  to  seize  upon  at  the 
instant;  yet,  as  recollected  afterwards,  seemed  to 
transfigure  the  whole  man. 

'  'Dear  Clifford/  said  Hepzibah,  in  the  tone  with 
which  one  soothes  a  wayward  infant,  'this  is  our 
cousin  Phoebe,— little  Phoebe  Pyncheon, — Arthur's 
only  child,  you  know.  She  has  come  from  the 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION       123 

country  to  stay  with  us  awhile;  for  our  old  house 
has  grown  to  be  very  lonely  now.' 

"Thcebe?  — Phoebe  Pyncheon  ?  —  Phoebe  ?'  re 
peated  the  guest,  with  a  strange  sluggish,  ill-defined 
utterance.  'Arthur's  child!  Ah,  I  forget!  No 
matter !  She  is  very  welcome !'  .  .  . 

"At  one  of  these  moments  of  less  torpid,  yet  still 
imperfect  animation,  Phoebe  became  convinced  of 
what  she  had  at  first  rejected  as  too  extravagant 
and  startling  an  idea.  She  saw  that  the  person 
before  her  must  have  been  the  original  of  the  beau 
tiful  miniature  in  her  cousin  Hepzibah's  possession. 
Indeed,  with  a  feminine  eye  for  costume,  she  had 
at  once  identified  the  damask  dressing-gown,  which 
enveloped  him,  as  the  same  in  figure,  material,  and 
fashion,  with  that  so  elaborately  represented  in  the 
picture.  This  old,  faded  garment,  with  all  its  pris 
tine  brilliancy  extinct,  seemed,  in  some  indescrib 
able  way,  to  translate  the  wearer's  untold  misfor 
tune,  and  make  it  perceptible  to  the  beholder's  eye. 
It  was  the  better  to  be  discerned,  by  this  exterior 
type,  how  worn  and  old  were  the  soul's  more  imme 
diate  garments;  that  form  and  countenance,  the 
beauty  and  grace  of  which  had  almost  transcended 
the  skill  of  the  most  exquisite  of  artists.  It  could 
the  more  adequately  be  known  that  the  soul  of  the 
man  must  have  suffered  some  miserable  wrong, 
from  its  earthly  experience.  There  he  seemed  to 
sit,  with  a  dim  veil  of  decay  and  ruin  betwixt  him 


124  HAWTHORNE 

and  the  world,  but  through  which,  at  flitting  inter 
vals,  might  be  caught  the  same  expression,  so  re 
fined,  so  softly  imaginative,  which  Malbone — ven 
turing  a  happy  touch,  with  suspended  breath — had 
imparted  to  the  miniature!  There  had  been  some 
thing  so  innately  characteristic  in  this  look,  that  all 
the  dusky  years,  and  the  burden  of  unfit  calamity 
which  had  fallen  upon  him,  did  not  suffice  utterly 
to  destroy  it." 

Hepzibah  embodies  one  phase  of  the  tragedy  of 
women's  lives  in  old  New  England ;  and,  apart  from 
the  special  circumstances  of  her  lot,  she  typifies  a 
class.  Other  later  writers  have  attempted  to  por 
tray  it;  but  she  stands  unrivaled,  the  protagonist  of 
all  her  kind.  Clifford,  her  counterpart,  is  presented 
in  a  different  vein  of  pathos;  and  in  him,  particu 
larly,  is  seen  an  example  of  Hawthorne's  preoccupa 
tion  with  artistic  themes  and  the  analysis  of  the 
artistic  nature,  of  the  sort  that  has  been  already  al 
luded  to.  The  use  of  the  miniature  by  Malbone, 
in  the  last  citation,  is  an  instance  of  Hawthorne's 
employment  of  properties  of  the  kind;  here  it  serves 
as  a  minor  echo  of  the  old  Colonel's  portrait,  which 
is,  of  course,  primary  in  the  decorative  scheme,  if 
one  may  use  such  a  phrase  without  giving  too  much 
sense  of  design.  The  general  purpose  is  to  develop 
and  unveil  with  an  almost  imperceptible  increment 
and  fulness  the  esthetic  side  of  Clifford's  now 
broken  nature.  With  what  slow  approaches  Haw- 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION       125 

thorne  places  him  in  the  presence  of  simple  objects 
of  beauty  and  shows  his  feeble  responses,  as  if  by 
brief  flashes  of  a  rallying  mind !  The  whole  scene 
is  against  the  background  of  the  old  prison-life;  the 
age  and  grim  scowl  of  Hepzibah  are  used  for  con 
trast,  the  youth  of  Phoebe  concentrates  the  elements 
of  charm,  the  physical  coarsening  of  Clifford's  na 
ture  by  his  privations  gives  deep-cut  shadows;  at 
last  the  scene  is  focused  in  the  flower,  itself  a  kind 
of  replica  of  the  young  girl  in  her  maidenhood  and 
a  symbol  of  the  fresh  bud  putting  forth  on  the  old 
branch  of  the  decaying  house.  But  let  the  romancer, 
himself,  speak! — 

"Not  to  speak  it  harshly  or  scornfully,  it  seemed 
Clifford's  nature  to  be  a  Sybarite.  It  was  percept 
ible,  even  there,  in  the  dark  old  parlor,  in  the  in 
evitable  polarity  with  which  his  eyes  were  attracted 
towards  the  quivering  play  of  sunbeams  through 
the  shadowy  foliage.  It  was  seen  in  his  appreciat 
ing  notice  of  the  vase  of  flowers,  the  scent  of  which 
he  inhaled  with  a  zest  almost  peculiar  to  a  physical 
organization  so  refined  that  spiritual  ingredients  are 
moulded  in  with  it.  It  was  betrayed  in  the  uncon 
scious  smile  with  which  he  regarded  Phoebe,  whose 
fresh  and  maidenly  figure  was  both  sunshine  and 
flowers, — their  essence,  in  a  prettier  and  more 
agreeable  mode  of  manifestation.  Not  less  evident 
was  this  love  and  necessity  for  the  Beautiful,  in  the 
instinctive  caution  with  which,  even  so  soon,  his 


126  HAWTHORNE 

eyes  "turned  away  from  his  hostess,  and  wandered 
to  any  quarter  rather  than  come  back.  It  was  Hep- 
zibah's  misfortime,-r— not  Clifford's  fault.  How 
could  he, — so  yellow  as  she  was,  so  wrinkled,  so 
sad  of  mien,  with  that  odd  uncouthness  of  a  turban 
on  her  head,  and  that  most  perverse  of  scowls  con 
torting  her  brow, — how  could  he  love  to  gaze  at 
her  ?  But,  did  he  o\ve  her  no  affection  for  so  much 
as  she  had  silently  given?  He  owed  her  nothing. 
A  nature  like  Clifford's  can  contract  no  debts  of 
that  kind.  It  is — we  say  it  without  censure,  nor  in 
diminution  of  the  claim  which  it  inde feasibly  pos 
sesses  on  beings  of  another  mould — it  is  always 
selfish  in  its  essence;  and  we  must  give  it  leave 
to  be  so,  and  heap  up  our  heroic  and  disinter 
ested  love  upon  it  so  much  the  more,  without  a 
recompense.  Poor  Hepzibah  knew  this  truth,  or, 
at  least,  acted  on  the  instinct  of  it.  So  long  es 
tranged  from  what  was  lovely  as  Clifford  had  been, 
she  rejoiced — rejoiced,  though  with  a  present  sigh, 
and  a  secret  purpose  to  shed  tears  in  her  own  cham 
ber — that  he  had  brighter  objects  now  before  his 
eyes  than  her  aged  and  uncomely  features.  They 
never  possessed  a  charm;  and  if  they  had,  the  can 
ker  of  her  grief  for  him  would  long  since  have  de 
stroyed  it. 

"The  guest  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  Mingled  in 
his  countenance  with  a  dreamy  delight,  there  was  a 
troubled  look  of  effort  and  unrest.  He  was  seeking 


THE    COLONIAL   TRADITION       127 

to  make  himself  more  fully  sensible  of  the  scene 
around  him ;  or,  perhaps,  dreading  it  to  be  a  dream, 
or  a  play  of  imagination,  was  vexing  the  fair  mo 
ment  with  a  struggle  for  some  added  brilliancy  and 
more  durable  illusion. 

"'How  pleasant! — How  delightful!'  he  mur 
mured,  but  not  as  if  addressing  any  one.  'Will  it 
last?  How  balmy  the  atmosphere  through  that 
open  window!  An  open  window!  How  beautiful 
that  play  of  sunshine !  Those  flowers,  how  very 
fragrant !  That  young  girl's  face,  how  cheerful, 
how  blooming! — a  flower  with  the  dew  on  it,  and 
sunbeams  in  the  dew-drops !  Ah !  this  must  be  all 
a  dream !  A  dream !  A  dream !  But  it  has  quite 
hidden  the  four  stone  walls !' 

"Then  his  face  darkened,  as  if  the  shadow  of  a 
cavern  or  a  dungeon  had  come  over  it ;  there  was  no 
more  light  in  its  expression  than  might  have  come 
through  the  iron  grates  of  a  prison  window, — still 
lessening,  too,  as  if  he  were  sinking  farther  into 
the  depths.  Phoebe  (being  of  that  quickness  and 
activity  of  temperament  that  she  seldom  long  re 
frained  from  taking  a  part,  and  generally  a  good 
one,  in  what  was  going  forward)  nowr  felt  herself 
moved  to  address  the  stranger. 

'  'Here  is  a  new  kind  of  rose,  which  I  found  this 
morning  in  the  garden,'  said  she,  choosing  a  small 
crimson  one  from  among  the  flowers  in  the  vase. 
'There  will  be  but  five  or  six  on  the  bush  this  sea- 


128  HAWTHORNE 

son.  This  is  the  most  perfect  of  them  all;  not  a 
speck  of  blight  or  mildew  in  it.  And  how  sweet  it 
is ! — sweet  like  no  other  rose !  One  can  never  for 
get  that  scent !' 

"  ' Ah ! — let  me  see ! — let  me  hold  it !'  cried  the 
guest,  eagerly  seizing  the  flower,  which,  by  the  spell 
peculiar  to  remembered  odors,  brought  innumerable 
associations  along  with  the  fragrance  that  it  ex 
haled.  'Thank  you !  This  has  done  me  good.  I  re 
member  how  I  used  to  prize  this  flower, — long  ago, 
I  suppose,  very  long  ago ! — or  was  it  only  yester 
day  ?  It  makes  me  feel  young  again !  Am  I  young  ? 
Either  this  remembrance  is  singularly  distinct,  or 
this  consciousness  strangely  dim!  But  how  kind 
of  the  fair  young  girl!  Thank  you!  Thank  you!'  ' 

But,  it  is  time  to  draw  the  curtain: 

"A  slumberous  veil  diffused  itself  over  his  coun 
tenance,  and  had  an  effect,  morally  speaking,  on  its 
naturally  delicate  and  elegant  outline,  like  that 
which  a  brooding  mist,  with  no  sunshine  in  it, 
throws  over  the  features  of  a  landscape.  He  ap 
peared  to  become  grosser, — almost  cloddish.  If 
aught  of  interest  or  beauty — even  ruined  beauty — 
had  heretofore  been  visible  in  this  man,  the  be 
holder  might  now  begin  to  doubt  it,  and  to  accuse 
his  own  imagination  of  deluding  him  with  whatever 
grace  had  flickered  over  that  visage,  and  whatever 
exquisite  lustre  had  gleamed  in  those  filmy  eyes. 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION       129 

"Finally,  his  chair  being  deep  and  softly  cush 
ioned,  Clifford  fell  asleep.  Hearing  the  more  regu 
lar  rise  and  fall  of  his  breath  (which,  however,  even 
then,  instead  of  being  strong  and  full,  had  a  feeble 
kind  of  tremor,  corresponding  with  the  lack  of  vigor 
in  his  character), — hearing  these  tokens  of  settled 
slumber,  Hepzibah  seized  the  opportunity  to  peruse 
his  face  more  attentively  than  she  had  yet  dared  to 
do.  Her  heart  melted  away  in  tears;  her  profound- 
est  spirit  sent  forth  a  moaning  voice,  low,  gentle, 
but  inexpressibly  sad.  In  this  depth  of  grief  and 
pity  she  felt  that  there  was  no  irreverence  in  gazing 
at  his  altered,  aged,  faded,  ruined  face.  But  no 
sooner  was  she  a  little  relieved  than  her  conscience 
smote  her  for  gazing  curiously  at  him,  now  that  he 
was  so  changed;  and,  turning  hastily  away,  Hepzi- 
ba-h  let  down  the  curtain  over  the  sunny  window, 
and  left  Clifford  to  slumber  there." 

Feeble  as  the  life  is  in  the  old  house,  whatever 
comes  near  it  and  most  pertains  to  it  lives  most. 
The  outlying  parts  of  the  story,  the  subordinate  in 
terests,  are  less  vital.  The  idyl  of  Phoebe  and  the 
young  daguerreotypist  fades  away  with  their  youth 
ful  talk  of  the  new  age.  The  heavy  tragedy  of  the 
villain's  taking  off  by  apoplexy,  though  it  is  the 
climax  of  the  plot,  notwithstanding  the  elaborate 
narrative,  remains  only  an  episode;  the  house-in 
terior  and  the  wandering  figures  flitting  there  hold 
the  center  of  the  stage.  The  fatuity  of  the  lives  of 


130  HAWTHORNE 

Hepzibah  and  Clifford  reaches  its  climax,  when 
their  courage  fails  them  in  the  attempt  to  go  to 
church : 

"  'Were  I  to  be  there/  he  rejoined,  'it  seems  to 
me  that  I  could  pray  once  more,  when  so  many 
human  souls  were  praying  all  around  me !' 

"She  looked  into  Clifford's  face,  and  beheld  there 
a  soft  natural  effusion;  for  his  heart  gushed  out, 
as  it  were,  and  ran  over  at  his  eyes,  in  delightful 
reverence  for  God,  and  kindly  affection  for  his 
human  brethren.  The  emotion  communicated  itself 
to  Hepzibah.  She  yearned  to  take  him  by  the  hand, 
and  go  and  kneel  down,  they  two  together, — both  so 
long  separate  from  the  world,  and,  as  she  now  rec 
ognized,  scarcely  friends  with  Him  above, — to  kneel 
down  among  the  people,  and  be  reconciled  to  God 
and  man  at  once. 

"'Dear  brother/  said  she,  earnestly,  'let  us  go! 
We  belong  nowhere.  We  have  not  a  foot  of  space 
in  any  church  to  kneel  upon ;  but  let  us  go  to  some 
place  of  worship,  even  if  we  stand  in  the  broad  aisle. 
Poor  and  forsaken  as  we  are,  some  pew-door  will 
be  opened  to  us !' 

"So  Hepzibah  and  her  brother  made  themselves 
ready, — as  ready  as  they  could  in  the  best  of  their 
old-fashioned  garments,  which  had  hung  on  pegs,  or 
been  laid  away  in  trunks,  so  long  that  the  dampness 
and  mouldy  smell  of  the  past  was  on  them, — made 
themselves  ready,  in  their  faded  bettermost,  to  go  to 


THE   COLONIAL   TRADITION       131 

church.  They  descended  the  staircase  together, — 
gaunt,  sallow  Hepzibah,  and  pale,  emaciated,  age- 
stricken  Clifford !  They  pulled  open  the  front  door, 
and  stepped  across  the  threshold,  and  felt,  both  of 
them,  as  if  they  were  standing  in  the  presence  of  the 
whole  world,  and  with  mankind's  great  and  terrible 
eye  on  them  alone.  The  eye  of  their  Father  seemed 
to  be  withdrawn,  and  gave  them  no  encouragement. 
The  warm  sunny  air  of  the  street  made  them  shiver. 
Their  hearts  quaked  within  them  at  the  idea  of  tak 
ing  one  step  farther. 

"  'It  can  not  be,  Hepzibah ! — it  is  too  late/  said 
Clifford,  with  deep  sadness.  'We  are  ghosts!  We 
have  no  right  among  human  beings, — no  right  any 
where  but  in  this  old  house,  which  has  a  curse  on  it, 
and  which,  therefore,  we  are  doomed  to  haunt ! 
And,  besides,'  he  continued,  with  a  fastidious  sensi 
bility,  inalienably  characteristic  of  the  man,  'it 
would  not  be  fit  nor  beautiful  to  go!  It  is  an  ugly 
thought  that  I  should  be  frightful  to  my  fellow-be 
ings,  and  that  children  would  cling  to  their  mothers' 
gowns  at  sight  of  me !' 

"They  shrank  back  into  the  dusky  passage-way, 
and  closed  the  door.  But,  going  up  the  staircase  again, 
they  found  the  whole  interior  of  the  house  tenfold 
more  dismal,  and  the  air  closer  and  heavier,  for  the 
glimpse  and  breath  of  freedom  which  they  had  just 
snatched.  They  could  not  flee ;  their  jailer  had  but 
left  the  door  ajar  in  mockery,  and  stood  behind  it 
to  watch  them  stealing  out.  At  the  threshold,  they 


132  HAWTHORNE 

felt  his  pitiless  gripe  upon  them.  For,  what  other 
dungeon  is  so  dark  as  one's  own  heart !  What  jailer 
so  inexorable  as  one's  self !" 

What  is  there  left  to  them  but  flight  from  the 
place  of  their  abandonment  by  man  and  God? 

What  does  it  matter  that  it  all  ended  at  last,  as 
stories  will,  happily,  in  a  clarification  of  incident, 
in  sunshine  and  gold,  a  retreat  for  old  Uncle  Ven- 
ner  and  an  open  door  to  the  future  for  Phcebe  and 
her  lover !  Stories  will  end  so.  But  the  real  story, 
the  genealogical  story,  the  story  of  the  curse, — did 
Hawthorne  believe  it  at  all  ? — did  he  believe  in  some 
unescapable  moral  inheritance,  a  mystery  of  fate, — 
or  did  he  merely  embroider  on  the  groundwork  of 
old  fancies,  the  village  and  landscape  scenes  of  his 
youth  ? 

However  that  may  be,  it  is  for  the  portrayal 
of  old  Salem  that  one  reads  the  tale.  It  was  this 
"old  Salem,"  and  not  his  contemporary  abiding- 
place,  to  which  Hawthorne  felt  the  ancestral  cling 
which  he  defined  as  "not  love,  but  instinct."  He 
recalls,  in  another  place,  the  grounds  for  this, — the 
succession  of  his  forefathers  in  the  old  colony  from 
its  first  planting,  and  especially  the  hundred-year 
line  of  ship-masters,  the  boy  of  fourteen  succeeding 
the  gray-head  in  each  generation,  as  he  "took  his 
hereditary  place  before  the  mast,  confronting  the 
salt  spray  and  the  gale,  which  had  blustered  against 
his  sire  and  grandsire";  and  he  declares  the  native 


THE   COLONIAL    TRADITION       133 

hold  on  the  heart  of  a  soil  that  is  through  long  time 
the  family  place  of  birth  and  burial.  Then  he  speaks 
as  a  son  of  the  soil.  "It  is  no  matter  that  the  place 
is  joyless  for  him;  that  he  is  weary  of  the  old 
wooden  houses,  the  mud  and  dust,  the  dead  level 
of  site  and  sentiment,  the  chill  east-wind,  and  the 
chillest  of  social  atmospheres;  all  these,  and  what 
ever  faults  besides  he  may  see  or  imagine,  are  noth 
ing  to  the  purpose.  The  spell  survives,  and  just  as 
powerfully  as  if  the  natal  spot  had  been  an  earthly 
paradise.  So  has  it  been  in  my  case."  He  owns  to 
feeling  that  he  has  disappointed  his  worthy  fore 
bears.  "No  aim,  that  I  have  ever  cherished,  would 
they  recognize  as  laudable;  no  success  of  mine — if 
my  life,  beyond  its  domestic  scope,  had  ever  been 
brightened  by  success — would  they  deem  otherwise 
than  worthless,  if  not  positively  disgraceful.  .  . 
And  yet,  let  them  scorn  me  as  they  will,  strong 
traits  of  their  nature  have  intertwined  themselves 
with  mine."  It  was  unfortunate  that  a  man,  destined 
to  recreate  the  life  of  his  native  place  through  long 
stages  of  history  should  have  felt  such  a  cleavage 
with  the  very  theme  of  his  tale.  This  cleavage,  how 
ever,  was  felt  quite  as  keenly  on  the  other  side. 
Salem  was  not,  at  the  time,  nor  has  it  been,  very 
friendly  to  her  great  citizen.  The  charm  of  Haw 
thorne's  sketches  of  the  old  village  and  town  life 

o 

did  not  quickly  dissipate  the  indifferent  or  adverse 
atmosphere  of  his  contemporary  days,  nor  did  his 
fame  waft  it  away  in  the  next  generation.  But, 


134  HAWTHORNE 

happily,  the  creations  of  the  imagination  free  them 
selves  from  prejudice,  ill-feeling,  and  personality, 
and  live  in  a  larger  world  than  the  village  of  their 
birth. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind,  too,  in  connection 
with  this  phase  of  Hawthorne's  life  that  his  griev 
ance,  if  it  may  be  called  such,  was  almost  as  much 
against  the  world  as  against  Salem.  Salem  was  only 
the  spot  where  he  felt  the  rub  of  the  world  most. 
Embitterment  is  plain  in  the  words  he  came  to  write 
finally  of  the  place  of  his  nativity  and  his  fellow- 
citizens;  but,  probably,  it  was  the  condition  of  the 
literary  life  that  was,  after  all,  most  to  blame.  He 
had  to  earn  his  bread  by  other  means  than  his  crea 
tive  talent,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  there  was 
friction  of  one  kind  and  another.  The  truth  is  that, 
probably,  it  was  by  the  merest  accident  of  his  having 
gone  to  college  with  classmates  afterwards  of 
great  political  power,  that  his  career  escaped  a  tragic 
ending,  such  as  is  frequent  in  literary  annals.  It 
was  due,  perhaps,  to  his  prolonged  trials,  as  an  au 
thor,  that  a  certain  self-distrust,  which  amounted  to 
a  distrust  of  his  genius,  was,  seemingly,  developed 
in  him.  At  all  events,  a  chasm  opened  between  him 
and  life,  in  many  directions,  as  his  literary  career 
developed.  He  notices,  himself,  the  unreality  that 
comes  upon  all  things  to  the  solitary  dreamer,  if 
the  mood  be  too  long  protracted.  His  lack  of  inti 
macy  with  intellectual  equals,  unless  Ellery  Chan- 
ning  be  reckoned  as  an  exception,  is  noticeable.  He 


THE    COLONIAL   TRADITION       135 

seems  to  have  belonged  to  those  literary  men  who 
find  companionship  outside  the  limits  of  the  craft, 
and  have  thus  broader  sympathies  with  life.  He 
was,  in  such  ways,  of  a  larger  nature  than  his  fel 
low-authors,  as  has  been  said,  and  had  something 
of  Scott's  "saving  commonsense"  in  respect  to  his 
art. 

Thus,  from  one  point  of  view  and  another,  it 
would  appear  that  Hawthorne  was  characterized  by 
his  genius  and  isolated  by  it,  and  saw  the  world 
at  Salem  and  was  seen  by  it  as  the  world  would 
have  seen  him  and  been  seen  by  him  anywhere.  The 
situation  \vas  merely  a  local  case  of  the  "prophet 
without  honor  in  his  own  country."  The  years  pass, 
and  the  statue  rises.  This  is  the  outward  and  vis 
ible  sign  of  his  acceptance  by  his  people,  where  the 
"House  of  the  Seven  Gables"  is  a  shrine  of  local 
pilgrimage. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  GREAT  PURITAN  ROMANCE 

THE  first  generation  of  New  England  writers 
of  distinction  fell  heir  to  a  common  stock  of 
communal  beliefs  and  memories,  which  was  the 
parent  soil  of  their  works,  however  diverse.  Their 
attitude  toward  this  body  of  tradition  discriminates 
the  varieties  of  their  genius.  Emerson,  the  most 
purely  spiritual  among  them,  and  ardent  to  advance 
still  further  the  light  which  had  long  burned  in  the 
hearts  of  the  men  of  that  lonely  wilderness,  was  de 
structive  of  the  past,  a  foremost  radical.  Longfel 
low,  with  the  instinct  and  training  of  a  scholar,  and 
being,  besides,  a  poet,  was  preservative  of  this  tra 
dition,  a  continuer  of  its  finer  legends  and  aspira 
tions  in  tale  and  history.  Hawthorne  was  the  pure 
artist,  who,  indeed,  reflected  the  moral  sky  of  that 
old  heaven  under  which  he  was  born  and  grew  into 
his  own  somber  manhood,  but,  nevertheless,  handled 
tradition  with  a  predominantly  artistic  instinct  and 
feeling  for  objective  effect,  harmonious  arrange 
ment,  and  unity  of  expression  through  all  modula 
tions  of  contrast,  episode  and  decoration.  He  was 
not  much  interested  in  other  things,  such  as  reform, 
except  superficially;  he  minded,  principally,  his  tale, 

136 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     137 

and  if  he  is  deeply  affected  by  the  moral  significance 
of  what  he  tells,  it  is  because  that  is  the  core  of  the 
tale  as  he  penetrates  into  its  meaning.  If  Emerson 
was  destructive  and  Longfellow  preservative  of  tra 
dition,  Hawthorne  is  best  described  as  penetrating 
its  moral  substance. 

He  was,  by  nature,  of  a  brooding  temperament, 
being  the  child  of  a  sea- faring  race,  and  born  in  a 
community  much  given  to  meditation,  with  a  vigor 
ous  intellectual  vein  in  it,  the  result  in  part  of  its 
isolation  and  concentration  of  thought  on  religious 
themes.  It  is  true  his  environment  in  his  own  youth 
and  manhood  was  little  favorable  to  genius.  His 
life  was  in  small  communities,  where  his  contact 
with  men  and  affairs  was  at  times  slight,  at  times 
humdrum,  and  never  very  stimulating,  it  would 
seem,  even  at  Concord,  then  the  Mecca  of  intellect 
in  New  England.  His  mental  food  in  those  days 
was  but  a  meager  diet  of  experience,  as  he  strolled 
through  country  lanes,  and  his  writing,  as  has  been 
observed,  was  apt  to  take  the  form  of  notes  on  vege 
tables,  the  look  of  trees  in  autumn,  the  behavior  of 
sea-gulls  and  plover  on  the  beach.  But  as  he 
worked  into  his  life,  as  even  genius  will,  with  a  cer 
tain  earnest  intuition  and  sounding  of  the  meaning, 
while  one  scene  and  another  passed  before  him  sub 
stantially  or  in  fancy,  he  found  that  for  him,  at 
least,  whatever  the  aspect  of  things  might  be  within 
the  narrow  limits  of  experience  assigned  to  him  or 
others,  the  essential  thing  was  moral, — that  was  the 


138  HAWTHORNE 

meaning  at  the  core  of  all  things;  however  trivial 
the  scene  might  be,  however  lonely  its  small  theater, 
he  discerned  the  nobility  of  his  material  by  virtue  of 
its  moral  nature.  One  prime  requirement  of  great 
art, — that  it  should  deal  with  noble  material, — was 
met  in  his  instinctive  moral  view  of  life;  here  was 
his  pathway  to  universal  interest,  the  chance  to 
make  his  humble  treasures  current  in  a  greater 
world  than  that  from  which  they  were  derived,  to 
lift  his  thoughts  into  the  general  mind  of  man  and 
disseminate  them  there,  if  only  he  had  the  art,  un 
der  the  inspiration  of  his  genius,  to  deal  worthily 
with  the  material  at  his  hand. 

Hawthorne  had  labored  long  at  the  short  story, 
before  he  produced  the  greater  wrork  of  a  novel. 
It  is  said,  indeed,  that  he  first  conceived  The  Scar 
let  Letter  as  a  brief  tale  of  the  colonies,  such  as 
he  told  many  a  time.  It  is  natural,  in  any  case,  to 
find  the  novel  cast  in  the  lines  of  a  tale,  that  being 
the  well-formed  habit  of  his  mind.  From  this  early 
prepossession  of  his  mind  by  the  methods  of  short- 
story  writing,  doubtless,  proceeded  the  trait  that 
continued  to  characterize  him,  of  employing  only  a 
few  characters,  supported  by  the  most  obvious  and 
simple  accessories  in  the  way  of  setting  and  environ 
ment,  all  of  which  should  throw  their  light  upon  the 
central  figures.  It  was  also  natural  that  meditation, 
thought  about  what  was  going  on,  should  be  to  the 
fore,  as  it  had  been  in  the  allegorizing  tales  of  his 
earlier  years.  Meditation,  indeed, — the  author's 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     139 

comment, — is  an  unusually  large  element  in  Haw 
thorne's  way  of  presenting  his  theme.  That,  in 
fact,  was  always  substantially  an  idea;  and  medita 
tion,  in  the  shape  of  the  author's  comment  was  the 
natural  method  of  developing  it, — the  end  of  the 
tale  being  not  an  event,  or  any  phase  of  action,  for 
itself,  but  a  conviction  in  the  reader's  mind.  The  prin 
ciple  of  artistic  economy  is  rigidly  observed  by  him 
in  the  novel  as  it  had  been  in  the  tale ;  the  fewest 
characters  and  simple  events,  necessary  to  skeleton 
ize  the  story  and  clothe  it  in  time  and  place,  in  the 
colors  of  mortality,  are  the  sole  means  sought  to  set 
forth  the  moral  truth,  which  blazes  in  the  garb  of 
art  from  the  climax.  The  moral  truth  set  forth  is 
not  didactic;  it  is  vital,  and  shown,  whether  in 
events  or  scenes,  corporeally  as  a  picture.  Thus  the 
last  sentence  of  The  Scarlet  Letter  is  not  a 
maxim,  but  presents  a  tombstone  as  a  summary, 
compressing  in  itself  the  tale  pictorially,  itself  the 
graven  symbol  of  a  symbol: — "It  bore  a  device,  a 
herald's  wording  of  which  might  serve  for  a  motto 
and  brief  description  of  our  now  completed  legend; 
so  somber  is  it,  and  relieved  only  by  one  ever- 
glowing  point  of  light,  gloomier  than  the  shadow: 

ON  A  FIELD  SABLE,  THE  LETTER  A.  GULES." 

The  scene  of  the  romance,  as  presented  in  the 
book,  has  one  quality  characteristic  of  the  highest 
creative  art.  It  is  perfectly  isolated;  Prosperous 
enchanted  isle  is  not  more  sundered  from  the  com 
mon  world.  The  lonely  New  England  wilderness, 


140  HAWTHORNE 

apart  from  its  being  Puritan,  offered  a  fit  stage  for 
a  concentrated  imaginative  tale,  complete  within 
itself.  Although  historic,  by  its  distance  in  time 
and  sentiment,  it  seems  another  soil  than  ours. 
Hawthorne  intended  to  use  but  few  characters  in 
the  tale;  but,  for  all  that,  its  meaning  was  general 
and  its  theme  universal,  and  by  the  very  nature  of 
its  thought,  which  involved  publicity  as  an  essential 
element,  the  tale  required  a  social  environment  in 
which  to  develop;  especially  was  this  the  case  be 
cause  it  was  to  be,  substantially,  a  communal  tale, 
not  one  of  individuals,  primarily.  He  folded  the 
little  world  of  the  interior  drama,  therefore,  be 
tween  the  two  great  communal  scenes,  at  the  begin 
ning  and  the  end,  each  important  and  imposing  in 
village  life,  as  one  may  style  it, — the  public  execu 
tion  of  the  sentence  of  the  magistrates,  on  one  hand, 
and  the  holiday  of  the  election  sermon  on  the  other. 
Except  in  these  instances  the  general  life  touches 
the  story  only  incidentally  and  vaguely.  It  is  some 
what  thus  that  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
in  Shakespeare,  is  isolated  between  the  scenes  of 
Theseus'  court.  The  environing  Puritan  world,  in 
general,  in  Hawthorne's  tale,  is  felt  by  the  public 
acts  of  condemnation  and  exhortation;  but  it  is 
rendered  only  by  slight  and  general  touches,  as  re 
gards-persons.  It  serves  to  introduce  the  figures  of 
the  two  male  characters,  and  to  give  a  guise  of  for 
mality  to  the  town's  officials;  but,  in  the  main,  a? 
environment,  that  world  is  a  characteristic  crowd, 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     141 

like  one  of  Shakespeare's  mobs,  picturesque  with  the 
wild  Indian  guide  on  the  outskirts,  or  the  Spanish 
sailors  with  the  brooch  of  gold  in  their  belts,  and 
vocal  with  the  miscellaneous  voices  of  hard  or  gen 
tle  women.  The  early  stage  scenery  is  slight, — a 
village  street,  a  prison,  a  scaffold  and  a  church ;  and 
the  same  simplicity  is  observed  in  the  later  stage- 
settings,  such  as  the  Governor's  house  or  the  forest 
brook-side.  The  background  and  accessories  are 
thus  sketched  in,  after  the  visual  impression  and 
general  sentiment  of  the  community  have  been 
given,  but  with  a  sparing  hand.  The  interior  drama 
of  the  main  persons  becomes  quickly  the  center  of 
interest,  like  a  play  within  a  play,  with  only  an  oc 
casional  local  touch  to  hint  a  larger  world,  such  as 
a  word  on  witchcraft  in  the  forest  or  a  glance  at 
some  embroidered  sleeve  of  that  age  of  needle 
work  ;  and,  in  particular,  the  light  beats  with  an  ever 
intenser  ray  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 

The  fantastical  gold-embroidered  letter  itself  on 
Hester  Prynne's  bosom,  as  it  takes  the  sunlight  on 
her  emergence  from  the  prison-door,  marks  the 
climax  of  Hawthorne's  use  of  the  physical  image 
to  concentrate  and  express  the  idea.  In  accordance 
with  his  practise  the  action  before  and  after  the 
play  of  events  he  presents  is  veiled;  the  drama  be 
gins  and  at  last  ends  at  the  scaffold.  The  lack  of 
interest  in  persons  thus  evidenced  is  obvious.  The 
neglect  of  adventure,  passion,  intrigue,  the  ways 
and  means  of  life,  of  the  character  and  circumstance 


142  HAWTHORNE 

out  of  which  the  drama  arose,  is  as  complete  as  pos 
sible;  only  so  much  is  told  as  to  furnish  information 
necessary  to  the  understanding  of  the  situation.  The 
abstract  element  in  Hawthorne's  art  throws  its 
shadow  before,  from  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  The 
"  Scarlet  Letter,  on  its  appearance,  is  almost  an  alge 
braic  sign.  It  signifies  a  state  of  affairs,  but  no 
particular  facts  or  situations  beforehand,  no  human 
story  of  love  or  infatuation;  it  stands  as  if  some 
thing  given  by  hypothesis.  What  truth  will  follow 
therefrom  is  independent  of  time,  place  or  person. 
The  tale  is  of  men's  bosoms  from  the  beginning; 
it  is  of  secret  things  and  therefore  not  primarily 
of  observation,  but  of  imagination.  In  this  romance 
imagination  is  the  eye  of  the  soul  to  which  alone  it 
gives  up  its  profound  secrets.  Historic  fact  and 
description,  indeed,  there  are  besides ;  but  the  heart 
of  the  story  is  in  the  gaze  of  the  imagination  on  the 
bosoms' of  the  three,  Hester,  her  lover  and  TIPT  Ting- 
fand,  so  fatally  linked^ The  tale  is  not  of  the  pas 
sion  or  the  sin ;  that  chapter  is  closed,  jt  is  of  pun 
ishment  solely;  and  it  starts,  naturally,  from  the 
simple  and  obvious  punishment,  a  lifelong  badge 
of  shame  to  be  worn  by  the  woman. 

The  handling  of  the  physical  image  to  give  it 
growth  and  range  of  power  and  load  it  with  blast 
ing  influence  on  these  unhappy  lives  offers  some 
novel  traits.  Repetition  and  reduplication  are  cus 
tomary  methods  of  concentration  of  interest  and 
development  of  meaning.  In  the  tale  of  "The 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     143 

Artist  of  the  Beautiful,"  the  physical  image  of  the 
butterfly  was  destroyed  more  than  once,  but  it  re 
appeared  from  its  fragments  with  increasing  signifi 
cance.  The  physical  image  of  the  Scarlet  Letter  is 
never  destroyed,  but  it  is  repeated  in  other  forms 
and  persons,  and,  curiously  enough,  it  is  given  a  sort 
of  life  of  its  own  which  grows  like  an  evil  and 
writched  thing.  The  tendency  of  the  image  to  . 
achieve  physical  identity  with  the  person  involve'd,x| 
in  Hawthorne's  short  stories,  has  been  pointed  out 
in  the  case  of  "The  Birthmark,"  and,  especially  in 
that  of  the  poison-flower  of  "Rappacinni's  Daugh 
ter."  There  it  was  a  striking  in  of  the  image.  The 
Scarlet  Letter,  however,  has  its  origin  in  the  soul, 
and  proceeds  outwardly  to  become  an  external 
stigma.  Whether  by  public  enactment,  as  in  Hes 
ter's  case,  or  by  a  secret  physiological  change  in  the 
minister's  bosom — whatever  be  the  particular  mode 
employed — the  essential  thing  is  to  secure  practical 
union  of  the  image  and  the  idea,  so  far  as  their 
significance  is  concerned.  To  employ  the  human 
body,  however,  as  the  means  of  that  union  is  dis 
tinctly  a  Hawthornesque  trait,  and  is,  no  doubt, 
related  to  the  speculation  of  his  time  as  to  the  in 
fluence  of  the  mind  on  the  body,  or  of  spirit  on 
matter.  It  is.  partly,  by  this  device  that  he  gives  a 
quasi-life  to  the  letter,  an  evil  growth.  Something 
in  his  method,  here,  is  also  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
true  action,  the  spiritual  action,  is  a  thing  of  the 
unseen  sphere  of  the  soul,  and  goes  on  in  secret 


V 


144  HAWTHORNE 

within  the  breast.  If  is  less  a  developing  action 
than  a  changing  state.  It  can  be  observed  only 
by  signs  and  indications,  indirectly;  and,  however 
the  eye  of  the  imagination  penetrates  the  soul's 
sphere,  it  can  tell  what  it  sees  only  by  material 
images.  It  is  for  this  reason  that,  in  default  of 
other  means,  Hawthorne  is  really  driven  to  express 
the  progress  of  his  story  by  presenting  it  as  typi 
fied  in  the  physique  of  the  persons,  in  the  minister 
and  physician,  and  in  the  material  accouterment 
and  happenings  of  the  scene,  in  the  case  of  Hester. 
It  is  essential  to  remember,  in  approaching  the 
tale,"thatjt..is  not  a.  history  °f  the  sinr  but;  of  t|he 

punishment.  This  accounts  for  the  fact  that  Hes- 
^ 

ter  s  thoughts  are  centered  on  the  badge ;  very  little 
is  said  of  what  the  great  passion  of  life  meant  to 
her  in  retrospect.  At  the  very  beginning  the  Scar 
let  Letter  is  made  to  characterize  her : 

"On  the  breast  of  her  gown,  in  fine  red  cloth, 
surrounded  with  an  elaborate  embroidery  and  fan 
tastic  flourishes  of  gold  thread,  appeared  the  letter 
A.  It  was  so  artistically  done  and  with  so  much 
fertility  and  gorgeous  luxuriance  of  fancy,  that  it 
had  all  the  effect  of  a  last  and  fitting  decoration  to 
the  apparel  which  she  wore;  and  which  was  of  a 
splendor  in  accordance  with  the  taste  of  the  age, 
but  greatly  beyond  what  was  allowed  by  the  sump 
tuary  regulations  of  the  colony.  .  .  .  She  had 
in  her  nature  a  rich,  voluptuous,  Oriental  character- 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     145 

istic,  a  taste  for  the  gorgeously  beautiful,  which, 
save  in  the  exquisite  productions  of  her  needle, 
found  nothing  else,  in  all  the  possibilities  of  her 
life  to  exercise  itself  on/' 

The  continued  use  by  Hawthorne  of  this  skill  in 
needlework  which  Hester  had,  is  an  example  of  his 
own  decorative  instinct  as  a  writer,  and  the  delicate 
artistic  tastes  that  are  so  frequently  to  be  observed 
in  his  works.  _ Needlework  and  works  of  charity 
became  Hester's  normal  human  life  in  the  com 
munity;  but  she  lived,  nevertheless,  in  complete  iso 
lation  because  of  the  letter,  which  was  a  Pariah 
mark.  Yet  not  wholly  in  isolation ;  there  were  ave 
nues  of  thought  that  led  straight  to  the  breasts  of 
others.  Her  eyes  had  been  rubbed  with  an  all-see 
ing  ointment. 

"Her  imagination  was  somewhat  affected,  and, 
had  she  been  of  a  softer  moral  and  intellectual  fibre, 
would  have  been  still  more  so,  by  the  strange  and  sol 
itary  anguish  of  her  life.  Walking  to  and  fro,  with 
those  lonely  footsteps,  in  the  little  wrorld  with  which 
she  wras  outwardly  connected,  it  now  and  then  ap 
peared  to  Hester, — if  altogether  fancy,  it  wras  nev 
ertheless  too  potent  to  be  resisted, — she  felt  or  fan 
cied,  then,  that  the  scarlet  letter  had  endowed  her 
with  a  new  sense.  She  shuddered  to  believe,  yet 
could  not  help  believing,  that  it  gave  her  a  sympa 
thetic  knowledge  of  the  hidden  sin  in  other  hearts. 


146  HAWTHORNE 

She  was  terror-stricken  by  the  revelations  that  were 
thus  made.  What  were  they?  Could  they  be  other 
than  the  insidious  whispers  of  the  bad  angel,  who 
would  fain  have  persuaded  the  struggling  woman, 
as  yet  only  half  his  victim,  that  the  outward  guise  of 
purity  was  but  a  lie,  and  that,  if  truth  were  every 
where  to  be  shown,  a  scarlet  letter  would  blaze  forth 
on  many  a  bosom  besides  Hester  Prynne's?  Or, 
must  she  receive  those  intimations — so  obscure,  yet 
so  distinct — as  truth?  In  all  her  miserable  experi 
ence,  there  was  nothing  else  so  awful  and  so  loath 
some  as  this  sense.  It  perplexed,  as  well  as  shocked 
her,  by  the  irreverent  inopportuneness  of  the  occa 
sions  that  brought  it  into  vivid  action.  Sometimes 
the  red  infamy  upon  her  breast  would  give  a  sympa 
thetic  throb,  as  she  passed  near  a  venerable  minister 
or  magistrate,  the  model  of  piety  and  justice,  to 
whom  that  age  of  antique  reverence  looked  up,  as  to 
a  mortal  man  in  fellowship  with  angels.  'What 
evil  thing  is  at  hand?'  would  Hester  say  to  herself. 
Lifting  her  reluctant  eyes,  there  would  be  nothing 
human  within  the  scope  of  view,  save  the  form  of 
this  earthly  saint !  Again,  a  mystic  sisterhood  would 
contumaciously  assert  itself,  as  she  met  the  sancti 
fied  frown  of  some  matron,  who,  according  to  the 
rumor  of  all  tongues,  had  kept  cold  snow  within 
her  bosom  throughout  life.  That  unsunned  snow 
in  the  matron's  bosom,  and  the  burning  shame  on 
Hester  Prynne's, — what  had  the  two  in  common? 
Or,  once  more,  the  electric  thrill  would  give  her 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     147 

warning, — 'Behold,  Hester,  here  is  a  companion !' 
— and,  looking  up,  she  would  detect  the  eyes  of  a 
young  maiden  glancing  at  the  scarlet  letter,  shyly 
and  aside,  and  quickly  averted  with  a  faint,  chill 
crimson  in  her  cheeks;  as  if  her  purity  were  some 
what  sullied  by  that  momentary  glance.  O  Fiend, 
whose  talisman  was  that  fatal  symbol,  wouldst  thou 
leave  nothing,  whether  in  youth  or  age,  for  this  poor 
sinner  to  revere? — such  loss  of  faith  is  ever  one  of 
the  saddest  results  of  sin.  Be  it  accepted  as  a  proof 
that  all  was  not  corrupt  in  this  poor  victim  of  her 
own  frailty,  and  man's  hard  law,  that  Hester 
Prynne  yet  struggled  to  believe  that  no  fellow-mor 
tal  was  guilty  like  herself." 

The  second  phase  of  the  letter  is  its  rebirth,  as  it 
were,  in  Pearl,  the  child.  This  is  the  least  convinc 
ing  form  that  the  phantasm,  to  style  it  so,  takes.  In 
spite  of  Hawthorne's  skill  in  handling  childish 
scenes  with  charm  and  tenderness,  and  a  certain 
gaiety  of  spirits,  Pearl  is  hardly  subdued  to  his 
magic;  she  seems  always  to  be  in  the  scene  for  a 
purpose,  and  this  is  in  itself  inharmonious  with  nat 
ural  childhood,  while,  besides,  there  is  an  essential 
conflict  between  childish  innocence  and  the  significa 
tion  of  the  letter,  which  is  felt  as  a  perpetual  dis 
cord,  when  the  two  are  brought  closely  together  and 
their  union  so  tirelessly  insisted  on,  as  in  the  tale. 
In  a  certain  sense,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
Pearl  is  used  to  torture  her  mother  with  refinements 


148  HAWTHORNE 

of  pain  ingeniously  thought  out  and  contrived  by 
the  author.  Hawthorne  not  infrequently  seems  to 
"manage"  his  characters,  as  the  phrase  goes;  no 
where  else  does  he  give  this  impression  so  clearly 
as  in  depicting  little  Pearl.  She  takes  up  the  Scar 
let  Letter,  like  an  echo  that  keeps  on  reechoing 
through  the  landscape  in  multiform  and  unexpected 
voices  and  images.  In  initiating  this  new  strain  of 
Pearl's  childhood,  in  the  history  of  the  letter,  the 
connection  with  the  theme  is  easily  made  through 
Hester's  skill  in  needlework,  and  delight  in  its  exer 
cise  that  has  already  been  emphasized.  Pearl's  pe 
culiar  kind  of  beauty,  indeed,  seems  to  call  for  just 
this  high  decorative  touch,  which  makes  her  like  an 
exotic  flower  in  the  gray  Puritan  town;  she,  w7ith 
her  elf-like  life  and  brilliant  color,  seems,  no  less 
than  her  mother,  alien  to  the  life  in  the  midst  of 
which  she  is  found.  And  when  she  appeared,  the 
little  visitant  might  indeed  have  seemed  a  fairy 
masker  from  old  court  revelries. 

"Her  mother,  in  contriving  the  child's  garb,  had 
allowed  the  gorgeous  tendencies  of  her  imagination 
their  full  play;  arraying  her  in  a  crimson  velvet 
tunic,  of  a  peculiar  cut,  abundantly  embroidered 
with  fantasies  and  flourishes  of  gold-thread.  So 
much  strength  of  coloring,  which  must  have  given  a 
wan  and  pallid  aspect  to  cheeks  of  a  fainter  bloom, 
was  admirably  adapted  to  Pearl's  beauty,  and  made 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     149 

her  the  very  brightest  little  jet  of  flame  that  ever 
danced  upon  the  earth. 

"But  it  was  a  remarkable  attribute  of  this  garb, 
and,  indeed,  of  the  child's  whole  appearance,  that  it 
irresistibly  and  inevitably  reminded  the  beholder  of 
the  token  which  Hester  Prynne  was  doomed  to  wear 
upon  her  bosom.  It  was  the  scarlet  letter  in  an 
other  form;  the  scarlet  letter  endowed  with  life! 
The  mother  herself — as  if  the  red  ignominy  were 
so  deeply  scorched  into  her  brain  that  all  her  con 
ceptions  assumed  its  form — had  carefully  wrought 
out  the  similitude ;  lavishing  many  hours  of  morbid 
ingenuity,  to  create  an  analogy  between  the  object 
of  her  affection  and  the  emblem  of  her  guilt  and 
torture.  But,  in  truth,  Pearl  was  the  one,  as  well 
as  the  other;  and  only  in  consequence  of  that  iden 
tity  had  Hester  contrived  so  perfectly  to  represent 
the  scarlet  letter  in  her  appearance. 


"  'What  have  we  here  ?'  said  Governor  Bell  ing- 
ham,  looking  with  surprise  at  the  scarlet  little  fig 
ure  before  him.  'I  profess,  I  have  never  seen  the 
like,  since  my  days  of  vanity,  in  old  King  James's 
time,  when  I  was  wont  to  esteem  it  a  high  favor  to 
be  admitted  to  a  court  mask !  There  used  to  be  a 
swarm  of  these  small  apparitions,  in  holiday  time; 
and  we  called  them  children  of  the  Lord  of  Mis 
rule.  But  how  gat  such  a  guest  into  my  hall?' 


150  HAWTHORNE 

"  'Ay,  indeed !'  cried  good  old  Mr.  Wilson.  'What 
little  bird  of  scarlet  plumage  may  this  be?  Me- 
thinks  I  have  seen  just  such  figures,  when  the  sun 
has  been  shining  through  a  richly  painted  window, 
and  tracing  out  the  golden  and  crimson  images 
across  the  floor.  But  that  was  in  the  old  land. 
Prithee,  young  one,  who  art  them,  and  what  hast 
ailed  thy  mother  to  bedizen  thee  in  this  strange  fash 
ion  ?  Art  thou  a  Christian  child, — ha  ?  Dost  know 
thy  catechism?  Or  art  thou  one  of  those  naughty 
elfs  or  fairies,  whom  we  thought  to  have  left  be 
hind  us,  with  other  relics  of  Papistry,  in  merry  old 
England  ?' 

"  'I  am  mother's  child/  answered  the  scarlet  vi 
sion,  'and  my  name  is  Pearl !' ' 

The  scene  by  the  brook-side,  at  a  later  moment, 
between  Pearl,  her  mother  and  the  minister,  bring? 
her  into  a  new  contact  with  the  letter,  while  it  hap 
pily  varies  the  decorative  quality  of  the  childish  fig> 
ure.  Hawthorne's  fondness  for  mirrored  effects  is 
noticeable  in  the  child's  image  in  the  brook.  The 
heart  of  the  scene,  however,  lies  in  Pearl's  refusal  to 
recognize  her  mother  without  the  Scarlet  Letter,  just 
torn  from  her  breast  and  cast  aside.  The  letter  has 
become  embodied  in  Hester,  so  that  she  was  not 
recognizable  to  her  child  without  it.  Hawthorne 
passes  the  matter  off  as  a  childish  whim;  but  his 
meaning  is  evidently  deeper  than  whim.  It  may 
seem  like  refining  too  much  to  refine  so,  but  what 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     151 

really  is  set  forth  here  is  the  growth  of  the  letter, 
spreading  out  and  entering  more  deeply  in,  until  it 
absorbs  these  lives,  like  an  evil  monster.  Hester  is 
subject  to  it;  at  her  child's  will,  she  puts  it  on  again; 
it  began  its  career  on  her  solitary  breast,  and  grad 
ually,  identifying  itself  with  her  life  and  shadowing 
the  world  about  her,  it  sprang  to  another  life  in 
Pearl,  and  it  will  continue  to  break  out  in  new 
forms.  The  cling  of  the  letter  to  the  mind  and 
body  of  both  mother  and  child  is  as  close  as  fate, 
and  it  seems  impossible  that  they  should  ever  be 
freed  from  it;  but  the  evil  thing,  in  wrhich  there  is 
much  of  Puritan  pitilessness,  is  managed  with  much 
prettiness  in  the  woodland  scenes  by  the  sunshiny 
brook, — scenes  that  Hawthorne  knew  well  how  to 
paint.  How  tranquil  it  all  is ! — 

"By  this  time  Pearl  had  reached  the  margin  of 
the  brook,  and  stood  on  the  farther  side,  gazing 
silently  at  Hester  and  the  clergyman,  who  still  sat 
together  on  the  mossy  tree-trunk,  waiting  to  receive 
her.  Just  where  she  had  paused,  the  brook  chanced 
to  form  a  pool,  so  smooth  and  quiet  that  it  reflected 
a  perfect  image  of  her  little  figure,  with  all  the  bril 
liant  picturesqueness  of  her  beauty,  in  its  adornment 
of  flowers  and  wreathed  foliage,  but  more  refined 
and  spiritualized  than  the  reality.  This  image,  so 
nearly  identical  with  the  living  Pearl,  seemed  to 
communicate  somewhat  of  its  own  shadowy  and 
intangible  quality  to  the  child  herself.  It  was 


152  HAWTHORNE 

strange,  the  way  in  which  Pearl  stood,  looking  so 
steadfastly  at  them  through  the  dim  medium  of  the 
forest-gloom;  herself,  meanwhile,  all  glorified  with 
a  ray  of  sunshine  that  was  attracted  thitherward 
as  by  a  certain  sympathy.  In  the  brook  beneath 
stood  another  child, — another  and  the  same, — with 
likewise  its  ray  of  golden  light.  Hester  felt  herself, 
in  some  indistinct  and  tantalizing  manner,  estranged 
from  Pearl;  as  if  the  child,  in  her  lonely  ramble 
through  the  forest,  had  strayed  out  of  the  sphere 
in  which  she  and  her  mother  dwelt  together,  and 
was  now  vainly  seeking  to  return  to  it. 

"There  was  both  truth  and  error  in  the  impres 
sion;  the  child  and  mother  were  estranged,  but 
through  Hester's  fault,  not  Pearl's.  Since  the  lat 
ter  rambled  from  her  side,  another  inmate  had  been 
admitted  within  the  circle  of  the  mother's  feelings, 
and  so  modified  the  aspect  of  them  all,  that  Pearl, 
the  returning  wanderer,  could  not  find  her  wonted 
place,  and  hardly  knew  where  she  was. 

"  'I  have  a  strange  fancy/  observed  the  sensitive 
minister,  'that  this  brook  is  the  boundary  between 
two  worlds,  and  that  thou  canst  never  meet  thy 
Pearl  again.  Or  is  she  an  elfish  spirit,  who,  as  the 
legends  of  our  childhood  taught  us,  is  forbidden  to 
cross  a  running  stream  ?  Pray  hasten  her ;  for  this 
delay  has  already  imparted  a  tremor  to  my  nerves/ 

"  'Come,  dearest  child !'  said  Hester,  encourag 
ingly,  and  stretching  out  both  her  arms.  'How 
slow  thou  art!  When  hast  thou  been  so  sluggish 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     153 

before  now?  Here  is  a  friend  of  mine,  who  must  be 
thy  friend  also.  Thou  wilt  have  twice  as  much 
love,  henceforward,  as  thy  mother  alone  could  give 
thee !  Leap  across  the  brook,  and  come  to  us.  Thou 
canst  leap  like  a  young  deer !' 

"Pearl,  without  responding  in  any  manner  to 
these  honey-sweet  expressions,  remained  on  the 
other  side  of  the  brook.  Now  she  fixed  her  bright, 
wild  eyes  on  her  mother,  now  on  the  minister,  and 
now  included  them  both  in  the  same  glance;  as  if 
to  detect  and  explain  to  herself  the  relation  which 
they  bore  to  one  another.  For  some  unaccountable 
reason,  as  Arthur  Dimmesdale  felt  the  child's  eyes 
upon  himself,  his  hand — with  that  gesture  so  habit 
ual  as  to  have  become  involuntary — stole  over  his 
heart.  At  length,  assuming  a  singular  air  of  author 
ity,  Pearl  stretched  out  her  hand,  with  the  small 
forefinger  extended,  and  pointing  evidently  towards 
her  mother's  breast.  And  beneath,  in  the  mirror  of 
the  brook,  there  was  the  flower-girdled  and  sunny 
image  of  little  Pearl,  pointing  her  small  forefinger 
too. 

"  Thou  strange  child,  why  dost  thou  not  come 
to  me?'  exclaimed  Hester. 

"Pearl  still  pointed  with  her  forefinger;  and  a 
frown  gathered  on  her  brow;  the  more  impressive 
from  the  childish,  the  almost  baby-like  aspect  of  the 
features  that  conveyed  it.  As  her  mother  still  kept 
beckoning  to  her,  and  arraying  her  face  in  a  holiday 
suit  of  unaccustomed  smiles,  the  child  stamped  her 


154  HAWTHORNE 

foot  with  a  yet  more  imperious  look  and  gesture. 
In  the  brook,  again,  was  the  fantastic  beauty  of  the 
image,  with  its  reflected  frown,  its  pointed  finger, 
and  imperious  gesture,  giving  emphasis  to  the  aspect 
of  little  Pearl. 

"  'Hasten,  Pearl ;  or  I  shall  be  angry  with  thee !' 
cried  Hester  Prynne,  who,  however  inured  to  such 
behavior  on  the  elf-child's  part  at  other  seasons, 
was  naturally  anxious  for  a  more  seemly  deport 
ment  now.  'Leap  across  the  brook,  naughty  child, 
and  run  hither !  Else  I  must  come  to  thee !' 

"But  Pearl,  not  a  whit  startled  at  her  mother's 
threats  any  more  than  mollified  by  her  entreaties, 
now  suddenly  burst  into  a  fit  of  passion,  gesticulat 
ing  violently  and  throwing  her  small  figure  into  the 
most  extravagant  contortions.  She  accompanied 
this  wild  outbreak  with  piercing  shrieks,  which  the 
woods  reverberated  on  all  sides;  so  that,  alone  as 
she  was  in  her  childish  and  unreasonable  wrath,  it 
seemed  as  if  a  hidden  multitude  were  lending  her 
their  sympathy  and  encouragement.  Seen  in  the 
brook,  once  more,  was  the  shadowy  wraith  of 
Pearl's  image,  crowned  and  girdled  with  flowers, 
but  stamping  its  foot,  wildly  gesticulating,  and,  in 
the  midst  of  all,  still  pointing  its  small  forefinger  at 
Hester's  bosom! 

"  'I  see  what  ails  the  child/  whispered  Hester  to 
the  clergyman,  and  turning  pale  in  spite  of  a  strong 
effort  to  conceal  her  trouble  and  annoyance.  'Chil 
dren  will  not  abide  any,  the  slightest,  change  in  the 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     155 

accustomed  aspect  of  things  that  are  daily  before 
their  eyes.  Pearl  misses  something  which  she  has 
always  seen  me  wear !' 

"  'I  pray  you/  answered  the  minister,  'if  thou 
hast  any  means  of  pacifying  the  child,  do  it  forth 
with!  Save  it  were  the  cankered  wrath  of  an  old 
witch,  like  Mistress  Hibbins,'  added  he,  attempting 
to  smile,  'I  know  nothing  I  would  not  sooner  en 
counter  than  this  passion  in  a  child.  In  Pearl's 
young  beauty,  as  in  the  wrinkled  witch,  it  has  a  pre 
ternatural  effect.  Pacify  her,  if  thou  lovest  me!' 

"Hester  turned  again  towards  Pearl,  with  a  crim 
son  blush  upon  her  cheek,  a  conscious  glance  aside 
at  the  clergyman,  and  then  a  heavy  sigh;  while, 
even  before  she  had  time  to  speak,  the  blush  yielded 
to  a  deadly  pallor. 

*  'Pearl,'  said  she,  sadly,  'look  down  at  thy  feet ! 
There! — before  thee! — on  the  hither  side  of  the 
brook !' 

'The  child  turned  her  eyes  to  the  point  indicated ; 
and  there  lay  the  scarlet  letter,  so  close  upon  the 
margin  of  the  stream,  that  the  gold  embroidery  was 
reflected  in  it. 

"  'Bring  it  hither !'  said  Hester. 

"  'Come  thou  and  take  it  up!'  answered  Pearl. 

"  'Was  ever  such  a  child !'  observed  Hester,  aside 
to  the  minister.  'Oh,  I  have  much  to  tell  thee  about 
her!  But  in  very  truth  she  is  right  as  regards  this 
hateful  token.  I  must  bear  its  torture  a  little  longer, 
— only  a  few  days  longer, — until  we  shall  have  left 


156  HAWTHORNE 

this  region  and  look  back  hither  as  to  a  land  which 
we  have  dreamed  of.  The  forest  cannot  hide  it ! 
The  mid-ocean  shall  take  it  from  my  hand,  and 
swallow  it  up  forever !' 

"With  these  words,  she  advanced  to  the  margin 
of  the  brook,  took  up  the  scarlet  letter,  and  fastened 
it  again  into  her  bosom.  Hopefully,  but  a  moment 
ago,  as  Hester  had  spoken  of  drowning  it  in  the 
deep  sea,  there  was  a  sense  of  inevitable  doom  upon 
her,  as  she  thus  received  back  this  deadly  symbol 
from  the  hand  of  fate.  She  had  flung  it  into  infi 
nite  space! — she  had  drawn  an  hour's  free  breath! 
— and  here  again  was  the  scarlet,  misery,  glittering 
on  the  old  spot !  So  it  ever  is,  whether  thus  typified 
or  no,  that  an  evil  deed  invests  itself  with  the  char 
acter  of  doom.  Hester  next  gathered  up  the  heavy 
tresses  of  her  hair,  and  confined  them  beneath  her 
cap.  As  if  there  were  a  withering  spell  in  the  sad 
letter,  her  beauty,  the  warmth  and  richness  of  her 
womanhood,  departed,  like  fading  sunshine;  and  a 
gray  shadow  seemed  to  fall  across  her. 

"When  the  dreary  change  was  wrought,  she  ex 
tended  her  hand  to  Pearl. 

"  'Dost  thou  know  thy  mother  now,  child  ?'  asked 
she,  reproachfully,  but  with  a  subdued  tone.  'Wilt 
thou  come  across  the  brook,  and  own  thy  mother, 
now  that  she  has  her  shame  upon  her, — now  that 
she  is  sad?' 

"  'Yes ;  now  I  will  F  answered  the  child,  bound 
ing  across  the  brook,  and  clasping  Hester  in  her 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     157 

arms.     'Now  thou  art  my  mother  indeed!     And  I 
am  thy  little  Pearl !'  ' 

The  history  of  the  letter  in  the  breast  of  the  min 
ister  is,  almost  too  obviously,  a  vivid  contrast,  an 
elaborate  antithesis,  to  the  open  scarlet  stigma  on 
Hesters  bosom.  In  her  case,  the  story  is  of  a  pun 
ishment  striking  in,  coloring  aprl  aV>gr>rVn'ng  lif**  m\fl 
growing  vital  therein  ;  his  tale  is  of  a  secret  sin  strik- 
ing  out,  obscuring  the  face  of  life  and  transforming 
it  to  his  eyes,  and  finally  becoming  py>v<;iraUy  mani 
fest  in  his  own  body.  The  history  of  the  punish 
ment,  in  either  case,  can  only  be  told  by  sign  and 
symbol,  for  it  is  all  an  inward  thing,  a  thing  of  the 
spirit,  and  although  its  workings  have  carnal  mani 
festations  they  are  essentially  secret  and  bodiless; 
hence  a  certain  touch  of  fantasy  pervades  the 
thought  and  imagery  of  the  book,  as  in  a  fable 
where  things  are  to  be  taken,  not  ocularly  and  tan 
gibly,  but  with  the  traditional  "grain  of  salt.''  This 
recourse  to  the  "grain  of  salt,"  as  a  defense  or  de 
murrer,  is  a  common  subterfuge  with  Hawthorne, 
when  he  is  not  quite  able  to  believe  himself, — as  if 
he  were  telling  stories  to  children.  The  most  singu 
lar  instance  of  this  failure  of  faith  in  his  own  imag 
ination  is  about  to  be  given ;  but  this  sort  of  doubt  in 
what  he  is  saying  seems  temperamental.  The  touch 
of  fantasy,  like  a  play  of  madness  or  fever,  is  con 
stantly  felt  in  the  progress  of  the  fates  of  the  three 
main  actors.  There  is  something  in  the  tale  that 


158  HAWTHORNE 

seems  to  denaturalize  life  itself,  alike  in  child  and 
mother,  and  in  the  lovers, — -here  is  a  world  truly  out 
of  tune.  Fantasy,  naturally,  springs  from  an  un 
hinged  or  faltering  mind.  It  easily  takes  form  in 
Pearl's  figure  and  actions;  but  that  is,  after  all,  a 
half -unconscious  mirroring  of  Hester's  mind.  In  the 
wandering  mind  of  the  minister  it  has  a  more  fatal 
career.  "Why  does  he  keep  his  hand  over  his 
heart?"  is  little  Pearl's  constant  question.  The  sense 
of  silence  round  his  thoughts,  of  an  unpenetrated  re 
serve,  is  only  deepened  by  the  hound-like  watchful 
ness  of  the  physician,  who  has  crept  into  his  confi 
dence,  to  spy  out  his  secret.  Once  or  twice,  indeed, 
Hawthorne  discloses  the  thoughts  in  the  minister's 
heart,  but  the  sense  of  the  dual  punishment  of  the 
secret  and  the  known  sinner  is  well  preserved  in  a 
balanced  contrast,  till  the  moment  of  open  discovery 
is  to  come.  The  difficulty  is  to  tell  of  secret  things, 
things  alike  unseen  and  unsaid, — and  it  is  by  fantasy 
that  Hawthorne  finds  the  way  out. 

The  finest,  and  perhaps  the  greatest  scene,  in  the 
sense  of  that  tableau  wrhich  Hawthorne  was  accus 
tomed  to  stage,  is  really  preparatory  to  the  denoue 
ment, — the  scene  of  the  minister's  midnight  vigil  on 
the  same  platform  where  Hester  suffered  her  public 
exposure  at  the  opening  of  the  tale.  With  a  certain 
skill  all  the  leading  characters  are  introduced, 
though  some  unbeknown  to  themselves,  in  the  scene, 
which  has  the  effect  of  a  drama  on  the  stage,  such  as 
Richard's  dream  before  the  battle,  on  Bosworth 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     159 

field;  but  the  center  and  climax  of  the  situation  is 
the  sin  breaking  its  secrecy  in  the  minister's  breast 
and  blazing  forth  to  all  the  world,  though  this  pub 
licity  is,  in  fact,  only  symbolically  achieved  in  the 
episode,  notwithstanding  the  passing  figures.  The 
open  confession  is  another  matter. 

"Walking  in  the  shadow  of  a  dream,  as  it  were, 
and  perhaps  actually  under  the  influence  of  a  species 
of  somnambulism,  Mr.  Dimmesdale  reached  the  spot 
where,  now  so  long  since,  Hester  Prynne  had  lived 
through  her  first  hours  of  public  ignominy.  The 
same  platform  or  scaffold,  black  and  weather- 
stained  with  the  storm  or  sunshine  of  seven  long 
years,  and  foot-worn,  too,  with  the  tread  of  many 
culprits  who  had  since  ascended  it,  remained  stand 
ing  beneath  the  balcony  of  the  meeting-house.  The 
minister  went  up  the  steps. 

"It  was  an  obscure  night  of  early  May.  An  un 
varied  pall  of  cloud  muffled  the  whole  expanse  of 
sky  from  zenith  to  horizon.  If  the  same  multitude 
which  had  stood  as  eye-witnesses  while  Hester 
Prynne  sustained  her  punishment  could  nowr  have 
been  summoned  forth,  they  would  have  discerned 
no  face  above  the  platform,  nor  hardly  the  outline 
of  a  human  shape,  in  the  dark  gray  of  the  midnight. 
But  the  town  was  all  asleep.  There  was  no  peril  of 
discovery.  The  minister  might  stand  there,  if  it  so 
pleased  him,  until  morning  should  redden  in  the  east, 
without  other  risk  than  that  the  dank  and  chill  night- 


160  HAWTHORNE 

air  would  creep  into  his  frame,  and  stiffen  his  joints 
with  rheumatism,  and  clog  his  throat  with  catarrh 
and  cough;  thereby  defrauding  the  expectant  audi 
ence  of  to-morrow's  prayer  and  sermon.  No  eye 
could  see  him,  save  that  ever- wakeful  one  which 
had  seen  him  in  his  closet,  wielding  the  bloody 
scourge.  Why,  then,  had  he  come  hither?  Was  it 
but  the  mockery  of  penitence?  A  mockery,  indeed, 
but  in  which  his  soul  trifled  with  itself !  A  mockery 
at  which  angels  blushed  and  wept,  while  fiends  re 
joiced,  with  jeering  laughter!  He  had  been  driven 
hither  by  the  impulse  of  that  Remorse  which  dogged 
him  everywhere,  and  whose  own  sister  and  closely 
linked  'companion  was  that  Cowardice  which  in 
variably  drew  him  back,  with  her  tremulous  gripe, 
just  when  the  other  impulse  had  hurried  him  to  the 
verge  of  a  disclosure.  Poor,  miserable  man !  what 
right  had  infirmity  like  his  to  burden  itself  with 
crime  ?  Crime  is  for  the  iron-nerved,  who  have  their 
choice  either  to  endure  it,  or,  if  it  press  too  hard,  to 
exert  their  fierce  and  savage  strength  for  a  good 
purpose,  and  fling  it  off  at  once!  This  feeble  and 
most  sensitive  of  spirits  could  do  neither,  yet  con 
tinually  did  one  thing  or  another,  which  intertwined, 
in  the  same  inextricable  knot,  the  agony  of  heaven- 
defying  guilt  and  vain  repentance. 

"And  thus,  while  standing  on  the  scaffold,  in  this 
vain  show  of  expiation,  Mr.  Dimmesdale  was  over 
come  with  a  great  horror  of  mind,  as  if  the  universe 
were  gazing  at  a  scarlet  token  on  his  naked  breast, 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     161 

right  over  his  heart.  On  that  spot,  in  very  truth, 
there  was,  and  there  had  long  been,  the  gnawing  and 
poisonous  tooth  of  bodily  pain.  Without  any  effort 
of  his  will,  or  power  to  restrain  himself,  he  shrieked 
aloud;  an  outcry  that  went  pealing  through  the 
night,  and  was  beaten  back  from  one  house  to  an 
other,  and  reverberated  from  the  hills  in  the  back 
ground;  as  if  a  company  of  devils,  detecting  so 
much  misery  and  terror  in  it,  had  made  a  plaything 
of  the  sound,  and  were  bandying  it  to  and  fro." 

Little  by  little  the  night-scene  develops,  with  the 
death  of  a  colonial  magnate  and  the  natural  passing 
to  and  fro  of  the  physician  and  the  watchers  and  the 
old  clergyman  in  the  dark  street  before  the  eyes  of 
the  minister  on  the  platform,  whose  spirit  is  dark 
ened  and  mind  unhinged  by  hysterical  thoughts. 
Physical  hysteria,  indeed,  was  evidently  his  state, 
and  to  his  own  involuntary  "great  peal  of  laughter" 
came  the  response  of  a  "light,  airy,  childish  laugh." 

"  Tearl !  Little  Pearl !'  cried  he  after  a  moment's 
pause ;  then,  suppressing  his  voice, — 'Hester  !  Hes 
ter  Prynne !  Are  you  there  ?' 

"  'Yes ;  it  is  Hester  Prynne !'  she  replied,  in  a 
tone  of  surprise;  and  the  minister  heard  her  foot 
steps  approaching  from  the  sidewalk,  along  which 
she  had  been  passing.  'It  is  I,  and  my  little  Pearl/ 

"  ''Whence  come  you,  Hester?'  asked  the  minister. 
'What  sent  vou  hither?' 


162  HAWTHORNE 

"  'I  have  been  watching  at  a  death-bed/  answered 
Hester  Prynne, — 'at  Governor  Winthrop's  death 
bed,  and  have  taken  his  measure  for  a  robe,  and  am 
now  going  homeward  to  my  dwelling/ 

"  'Come  up  hither,  Hester,  thou  and  little  Pearl/ 
said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale.  'Ye  have  both 
been  here  before,  but  I  was  not  with  you.  Come  up 
hither  once  again,  and  we  will  stand  all  three  to 
gether  !' 

"She  silently  ascended  the  steps,  and  stood  on  the 
platform,  holding  little  Pearl  by  the  hand.  The 
minister  felt  for  the  child's  other  hand,  and  took  it. 
The  moment  that  he  did  so,  there  came  what  seemed 
a  tumultuous  rush  of  new  life,  other  life  than  his 
own,  pouring  like  a  torrent  into  his  heart,  and  hurry 
ing  through  all  his  veins,  as  if  the  mother  and  the 
child  were  communicating  their  vital  warmth  to  his 
half -torpid  system.  The  three  formed  an  electric 
chain. 

"  'Minister !'  whispered  little  Pearl. 

"'What  wouldst  thou  say,  child?'  asked  Mr. 
Dimmesdale. 

"  'Wilt  thou  stand  here  with  mother  and  me,  to 
morrow  noontide?'  inquired  Pearl. 

"  'Nay ;  not  so,  my  little  Pearl/  answered  the  min 
ister;  for  with  the  new  energy  of  the  moment,  all 
the  dread  of  public  exposure,  that  had  so  long  been 
the  anguish  of  his  life,  had  returned  upon  him;  and 
he  was  already  trembling  at  the  conjunction  in 
which — with  a  strange  joy,  nevertheless — he  now 


,    THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     163 

found  himself.    'Not  so,  my  child.    I  shall,  indeed, 
stand  with  thy  mother  and  thee,  one  other  day,  but 


not  to-morrow/ 


" Pearl  laughed,  and  attempted  to  pull  away  her 
hand.  But  the  minister  held  it  fast. 

"  'A  moment  longer,  my  child !'  said  he. 

"  'But  wilt  thou  promise,'  asked  Pearl,  'to  take  my 
hand  and  mother's  hand,  to-morrow  noontide  ?' 

"  'Not  then,  Pearl,'  said  the  minister,  'but  another 
time/ 

"  'And  what  other  time?'  persisted  the  child. 

"  'At  the  great  judgment  day,'  whispered  the  min 
ister, — and,  strangely  enough,  the  sense  that  he  was 
a  professional  teacher  of  the  truth  impelled  him  to 
answer  the  child  so.  'Then,  and  there,  before  the 
judgment-seat,  thy  mother,  and  thou,  and  I  must 
stand  together.  But  the  daylight  of  this  world  shall 
not  see  our  meeting !' 

"Pearl  laughed  again. 

"But  before  Mr.  Dimmesdale  had  done  speaking, 
a  light  gleamed  far  and  wide  over  all  the  muffled 
sky.  It  was  doubtless  caused  by  one  of  those  me 
teors,  which  the  night-watcher  may  so  often  observe, 
burning  out  to  waste,  in  the  vacant  regions  of  the  at 
mosphere.  So  powerful  was  its  radiance,  that  it 
thoroughly  illuminated  the  dense  medium  of  cloud 
betwixt  the  sky  and  earth.  The  great  vault  bright 
ened,  like  the  dome  of  an  immense  lamp.  It  showed 
the  familiar  scene  of  the  street,  with  the  distinctness 
of  mid-day,  but  also  with  the  awfulness  that  is  al- 


164  HAWTHORNE 

ways  imparted  to  familiar  objects  by  an  unaccus 
tomed  light.  The  wooden  houses,  with  their  jutting 
stories  and  quaint  gable-peaks;  the  doorsteps  and 
thresholds,  with  the  early  grass  springing  up  about 
them;  the  garden-plots,  black  with  freshly-turned 
earth;  the  wheel-track,  little  worn,  and,  even  in  the 
market-place,  margined  with  green  on  either  side, — 
all  were  visible,  but  with  a  singularity  of  aspect  that 
seemed  to  give  another  moral  interpretation  to  the 
things  of  this  world  than  they  had  ever  borne  be 
fore.  And  there  stood  the  minister,  with  his  hand 
over  his  heart;  and  Hester  Prynne,  with  the  em 
broidered  letter  glimmering  on  her  bosom;  and  lit 
tle  Pearl,  herself  a  symbol,  and  the  connecting  link 
between  those  two.  They  stood  in  the  noon  of  that 
strange  and  solemn  splendor,  as  if  it  were  the  light 
that  is  to  reveal  all  secrets,  and  the  daybreak  that 
shall  unite  all  who  belong  to  one  another. 

"There  was  witchcraft  in  little  Pearl's  eyes,  and 
her  face,  as  she  glanced  upward  at  the  minister, 
wore  that  naughty  smile  which  made  its  expression 
frequently  so  elfish.  She  withdrew  her  hand  from 
Mr.  Dimmesdale's,  and  pointed  across  the  street. 
But  he  clasped  both  his  hands  over  his  breast,  and 
cast  his  eyes  towards  the  zenith. 


"We  impute  it,  therefore,  solely  to  the  disease  in 
his  own  eye  and  heart,  that  the  minister,  looking  up 
ward  to  the  zenith,  beheld  there  the  appearance  of 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     165 

an  immense  letter, — the  letter  A, — marked  out  in 
lines  of  dull  red  light.  Not  but  the  meteor  may  have 
shown  itself  at  that  point,  burning  duskily  through 
a  veil  of  cloud;  but  with  no  such  shape  as  his  guilty 
imagination  gave  it;  or,  at  least,  with  so  little  defi- 
niteness,  that  another's  guilt  might  have  seen  an 
other  symbol  in  it." 

The  wavering  of  Hawthorne's  faith  in  his  own 
imagination  is  a  curious  thing,  and  to  a  certain  ex 
tent  it  infuses  an  element  of  weakness  into  his  work, 
inasmuch  as  one  begins  to  doubt  if  the  author  him 
self  quite  believes  in  the  truth  of  his  own  tale.  Did 
it  matter  whether  the  script  flaming  in  the  sky  was 
the  letter  A  or  not  ?  It  was  so  that  the  minister  saw7 
it;  and  the  truth  was  what  he  saw,  whether  imag 
inary  or  real.  The  actual  phenomenon  may  have 
been  one  thing  or  another, — it  is  unconcerning  and 
immaterial:  the  ideal  truth,  the  abstract  truth,  the 
living  truth  was  what  the  minister  saw.  The  "air- 
drawn  dagger"  of  Macbeth  was  such  a  reality.  To 
question  the  ocular  evidence  in  such  a  case  is  to  deny 
the  very  nature  of  that  ideal  world  in  which  the  im 
agination  abides,  and  to  confound  the  actual  world 
with  it.  The  two  are  apart  and  incommensurable.  The 
truth  is  that  Hawthorne,  in  subjection  to  the  thoughts 
of  his  time,  regarded  the  supernatural  as  something 
real  indeed,  but  to  be  rationally  explained  and  thus 
taken  out  of  the  category  of  the  miraculous.  The 
earlier  effort  of  romancers  before  him  had  been  to 


166  HAWTHORNE 

explain  the  miraculous  by  mechanical  or  equally 
obvious  means  of  intentional  deception,  as  mere 
.  ghost-tricks  of  one  or  another  sort.  Hawthorne, 
with  a  more  subtle  understanding  and  a  finer  hand, 
would  explain  the  marvelous  or  mysterious  by  the 
psychology  of  the  persons  involved.  He  was  fas 
cinated  by  the  mysterious  in  any  of  its  many  forms ; 
he  was  accustomed  to  deal  in  mystery,  from  the 
crude  supernatural] sm  of  witchcraft  in  the  forest  to 
the  extravaganzas  and  refinements  of  fantasy;  but 
he  was  ill  at  ease  with  old  beliefs,  and  he  wished  to 
explain  them  by  a  rationalism  that  belonged  to  his 
own  time.  The  psychological  solution  of  the  matter 
was  at  hand,  and  he  utilized  it :  there  was  a  lightning 
flash,  and,  given  the  state  of  the  minister's  mind, 
he  may  have  thought  he  saw.  the  letter  A  blazing  out 
his  secret  sin  in  heaven.  The  curious  thing  is  that 
Hawthorne  should  have  deemed  it  necessary  to  give 
any  explanation  or  to  have  wrarned  his  readers  to 
suspend  their  judgment  as  to  the  actual  facts  of  the 
case. 

This  reserve  of  Hawthorne  in  crediting  his  own 
story  is  still  more  remarkable  when  he  comes  to  the 
central  fact  and  climax  of  it  all,  so  far  as  the  min 
ister  is  concerned.  It  is  plain  that  the  scene  for 
which  the  last  extract  is  preparatory,  is  at  hand. 
The  tragic  reversal,  to  be  precise,  is  due, — in  fact, 
has  already  occurred  symbolically  by  the  portent  in 
the  sky.  The  opposition  in  the  tale  between  Hester's 
shame  and  the  minister's  secret  sin  is  about  to  be 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     167 

dissolved.  The  tragic  reversal  is  fully  accomplished 
when  his  breast  is  bared  with  the  stigma  stamped 
upon  it  in  the  flesh,  and  he  stands  confessed  her 
lover  on  the  same  platform  with  her.  Yet  even  here, 
at  the  climax  of  fate  and  when  the  logic  of  the  tale 
is  plain  and  convincing,  Hawthorne  implies  much 
question  as  to  the  reality  of  the  stigma  bitten  into 
the  minister's  long-hidden  bosom.  Did  he  believe 
his  own  tale?  one  involuntarily  asks:  or  did  he 
sympathize  with  modern  incredulity  so  far  that  he 
felt  obliged  to  admit  explanations,  at  least,  as  of 
miracles.  The  fact  of  such  a  stigma  as  a  phenom 
enon,  however  caused,  has  been  repeatedly  avouched, 
and  is  often  attributed  to  the  working  of  the  mind  on 
the  body  in  moments  or  moods  of  intensity.  What 
ever  was  Hawthorne's  motive,  it  must  be  allowed 
that,  at  any  rate,  his  explanation, — that  is,  his  ex 
plaining  away  or  permftting  a  doubt  to  intrude  as 
to  the  actual  facts — of  the  letter  in  the  sky  and  on 
the  minister's  breast  lies  outside  the  story;  for  the 
story,  to  be  whole  and  sound  in  imagination,  re 
quires  them  to  be  real. 

The  history  of  the  letter,  which  has  been  followed 
closely  so  far  in  the  lives  of  the  mother,  the  child 
and  the  lover  with  its  so  varying  fortunes,  as  it 
gathered  up  and  gave  expression  to  their  tortured 
lives,  ends  with  the  public  self -exposure  of  the  min 
ister.  The  physician  who  is  a  mere  observer  and  ac 
complice,  as  it  were,  of  the  letter  in  the  punishment, 
needs  little  comment,  beyond  the  point  that  the  pur- 


168  HAWTHORNE 

suit  of  revenge  left  its  physical  tokens  of  degeneracy 
on  him  in  his  face  and  appearance.  Punishment  of  a 
sort  he  received  for  his  part,  both  willing  and  un 
willing,  in  the  tangled  fates  of  the  little  group, 
where  he  was  the  hater,  and  thought  himself  the 
avenger.  Vengeance  was  worked  out  under  his  eyes, 
indeed,  but  it  did  not  come  from  him.  His  part 
really  seems  superfluous,  for  one  is  told  rather  than 
sees  how  he  plays  with  the  minister's  inner  life  and 
secrecy. 

It  has  been  observed  that  Hawthorne  in  this  tale 
worked  under  an  extraordinary  difficulty  in  rinding 
outward  expression  for  the  inward  spiritual  life  of 
the  unhappy  pair  of  lovers  under  their  punishment, 
either  of  open  shame  or  secret  remorse.  He  sought 
to  tell  the  story,  as  it  were,  in  a  visible  language,  by 
means  of  the  Scarlet  Letter,  the  secret  stigma,  and 
the  writing  on  the  physician's  face  and  figure.  The 
last  is  made  most  plain  in  the  midnight  scene,  when 
the  lightning  illuminated  the  sky  and  earth : 

"The  minister  appeared  to  see  him  [the  physi 
cian],  with  the  same  glance  that  discerned  the  mi 
raculous  letter.  To  his  features,  as  to  all  other  ob 
jects,  the  meteoric  light  imparted  a  new  expression ; 
or  it  might  well  be  that  the  physician  was  not  so 
careful  then,  as  at  all  other  times,  to  hide  the  malev 
olence  with  which  he  looked  upon  his  victim.  Cer 
tainly,  if  the  meteor  kindled  up  the  sky,  and  dis 
closed  the  earth,  with  an  aw  fulness  that  admonished 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     169 

Hester  Prynne  and  the  clergyman  of  the  day  of 
judgment,  then  might  Roger  Chillingworth  have 
passed  with  them  for  the  arch-fiend,  standing  there 
with  a  smile  and  scowl,  to  claim  his  own.  So  vivid 
was  the  expression,  or  so  intense  the  minister's  re 
ception  of  it,  that  it  seemed  still  to  remain  painted  in 
the  darkness,  after  the  meteor  had  vanished,  with  an 
effect  as  if  the  street  and  all  things  else  were  at  once 
annihilated." 

This  writing  of  all  secret  things  of  the  soul's  ex 
periences  and  changes  in  visible  lineaments,  as  it 
were,  pervades  the  method  of  the  narrative,  and 
proceeds  from  the  vivid  imaginative  force  of  Haw 
thorne's  genius,  which  habitually  worked  with  vis 
ualizing  power.  He  seems  to  have  been  dependent 
to  an  unusual  degree  on  his  visualizing  power  to 
bring  home  the  reality  of  things.  The  trait  was  per 
haps  connected  with  his  rare  powers  of  observation. 
At  all  events,  the  absorption  of  his  mind  in  the  phys 
ical  object  and  his  loading  and  reloading  it  with  sig 
nificance  and  suggestion  tend  to  overcharge  the  ma 
terial  elements  of  the  tale,  in  comparison  with  its 
spiritual  substance;  the  letter,  itself,  tends  to  take 
the  place  alike  of  sin  and  punishment.  One  follows 
its  history  as  a  separate  evil  thing  that  has  its  vic 
tims  in  its  power.  But  of  the  actual  state  of  the 
bosoms  of  these  characters,  that  the  letter  symbol 
izes  in  various  forms,  what  is  really  told?  What 
repentance  was  there  in  the  breasts  of  either?  What 


170  HAWTHORNE 

was  their  after-thought  of  their  great  passion? 
There  is  only  the  one  startling  sentence  of  Hester, 
that  throws  a  light  more  penetrating  than  the  fire  in 
heaven  upon  them : 

"  'Never,  never!'  whispered  she.  'What  we  did 
had  a  consecration  of  its  own.  We  felt  it  so!  We 
said  so  to  each  other !  Hast  thou  forgotten  it?' ' 

Few  words;  but  none  are  more  humanly  signifi 
cant  in  the  whole  story.  How  little  after  all  Haw 
thorne's  method  achieved  in  unfolding  the  secrets 
of  the  soul's  experience !  Some  of  the  ways  of  its 
torturing  thoughts  are  illustrated,  some  of  their  is 
sues  arid  expedients;  but  of  the  silent  lives  of  Hester 
and  her  lover  in  themselves,  is  anything  really  re 
vealed?  Was  the  physical  image  of  the  Scarlet  Let 
ter  capable  of  holding  and  releasing  the  story,  or  did 
it  fail,  partly  because  it  drew  the  story  down  into  a 
world  of  interpretation  through  physical  symbols, 
not  of  the  soul's  region,  and  weakened,  besides,  by 
Hawthorne's  own  incredulity  in  them  ? 

The  Scarlet  Letter  is  a  tale  of  doomed  lives 
without  escape,  and  one  looks  on  at  the  tragedy  as 
at  a  play  of  fate.  But  the  true  inevitability  of  fate, 
that  makes  the  sweep  and  force  of  great  tragedy,  is 
not  in  the  play,  as  it  develops  before  the  eye.  Plain 
as  the  situation  of  each  of  the  characters  is,  the  char 
acters  themselves  are  not  made  known,  and  espe 
cially  is  this  true  of  Hester  and  her  lover.  Hester 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     171 

seems  a  greater  character  than  belonged  to  that  little 
world  of  the  Puritan  colony,  and  her  womanly  na 
ture  is  never  given  its  range,  while  her  lover,  though 
infinitely  weaker  in  fiber,  has  no  career  developing 
his  own  individuality;  he  appears  only  as  the  slave 
of  his  profession,  and,  if  she  was  of  a  larger,  he 
was  of  a  smaller  type  than  belonged  to  their  en 
vironment.  All  that  appears  in  the  human  stofy  is 
a  tangle  of  fatal  events.  The  moral  lesson,  if  that 
be  sotfght,  is  hard  and  dark.  The  kindly  elements 
of  life,  its  self-healing  power,  the  ways  of  absolu 
tion  are  excluded,  as  if  they  were  not.  Pearl,  the 
child,  is  the  child  of  the  Scarlet  Letter  only:  she 
scarcely  seems  her  mother's  child.  There  is  an  arbi 
trariness  in  the  tale,  as  of  a  sentence  sealed  and  de 
livered,  to  be  carried  out.  It  strikes  one,  not  with 
the  inevitability  of  great  art  grounded  in  human 
character  and  the  nature  of  this  world,  but  as  the 
history  of  the  sentence  of  a  court. 

Fantasy,  which  is  a  kind  of  wild  imagination,  had 
a  large  career  in  the  literature  of  the  early  nineteenth 
century.  Perhaps  it  was  most  obvious,  poetically,  in 
Coleridge,  but  it  sprang  up,  like  a  tender  herb, 
everywhere,  in  prose  and  verse,  abroad  and  at  home. 
To  speak  vaguely,  it  was  of  the  temperament  of  the 
times.  In  Hawthorne's  genius  it  was  omnipotent 
and  pervasive,  a  form  of  wandering  thought  that 
put  forth  where  it  would  on  any  page.  It  blossomed 
in  unexpected  places,  with  a  random  and  uncon 
trolled  movement  that  showed  its  natural  sponta- 


172  HAWTHORNE 

neity.  Sometimes  it  took  possession  of  an  image  or 
an  idea,  like  an  elfish  spirit  of  art,  and  moulded  out 
of  it  gargoyles  of  expression,  as  it  were,  transitory 
suggestions  and  intimations.  Hawthorne's  thoughts 
are  full  of  such  singularities.  The  true  imagination, 
the  rational  imagination,  relaxes  its  rigor,  and  in  its 
place  come  reverie  and  dream,  the  half-perceived, 
the  divined,  the  mere  play  of  the  wakeful  brain.  If 
then,  the  image  or  idea,  already  fantastic  in  its  birth, 
is  given  a  free  course  to  develop  itself,  without  the 
interference  of  the  rational  element,  strange  works 
of  art  result,  oftentimes  original  in  form  and  mys 
terious  in  content.  The  physical  image,  as  Haw 
thorne  conceived  it,  had  a  touch  of  such  fantasy,  and 
to  what  an  extent  it  developed  in  the  case  of  the 
Scarlet  Letter  has  just  been  illustrated.  Such  an 
image  tends  to  escape  from  its  creator  and  develop 
its  own  life.  It  is  because  Hawthorne  feels  the  im 
age  breaking  away  from  him  that  he  questions  its 
reality  at  the  moments  of  climax  in  the  minister's 
history.  Fantasy  had  carried  Hawthorne  further 
than,  as  a  rationalist,  he  felt  justified  in  going. 

But  a  deeper  truth  of  art  lies  in  the  matter.  It 
has  been  noticed  that  Hawthorne  gives  the  double 
impression  of  "managing"  his  characters,  at  times, I 
or  specifically  in  the  case  of  Pearl,  and  of  a  certain 
arbitrariness  in  the  general  plot,  as  of  a  thing  whose 
course  and  issue  were  agreed  upon  and  determined 
in  advance.  In  harmony  with  this,  it  is  to  be  ob 
served  that  artifice  is  the  natural  accomplice  of  fan- 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     173 

tasy,  in  art,  because  the  fantastic  by  its  very  nature 
is  easily  subject  to  change,  being  uncontrolled  by 
any  inner  law  of  its  structure  as  rational  imagina 
tion  is  controlled.  The  master  of  fantasy  and  the 
fantastic  in  American  poetry  is  Poe;  and  it  has 
often  been  alleged  that  artifice  is  the  breath  of  his 
genius.  So  extreme  a  charge  is  unjust,  even  when 
he  lends  color  to  it  himself;  but  this  much  is  true, 
that  artifice  is  the  temptation  of  the  artist  of  the 
fantastic,  if  for  a  moment  his  genius  fails.  The 
large  element  of  fantasy  in  Hawthorne's  imagina 
tion  is  obvious  to  his  readers;  the  check  upon  his 
acceptance  of  it,  in  working  out  his  stories  as  true 
narratives  of  facts,  is  equally  plain;  and  the  manipu 
lation  of  the  various  parts  of  the  tales,  by  reduplica- 
v  tion  and  echo  and  like  devices,  is  an  example  of  the 
sort  of  artifice  that  he  consciously  resorted  to.  The 
ingenuity  of  his  construction  and  development  of 
theme  in  fiction  recall  the  same  marked  quality  in 
Poe's  genius,  and  it  is  at  least  curious  that  fantasy 
was  a  chief  ingredient  in  the  imagination  of  both. 
In  the  case  of  both,  their  works,  at  times,  seem 
rather  made  than  grown,  and  yet,  at  times,  have  a 
vitality  of  their  own.  Fantasy,  like  true  imagina 
tion,  has  its  own  principle  of  life. 

Hawthorne's  art  in  The  Scarlet  Letter,  it  must 
be  borne  in  mind,  was  something  quite  different 
from  his  material.  The  material  was  moral,  and 
hence  noble;  the  art  was  fantastic;  the  content  was 
abstract.  The  whole  work  was  thus  strangely  com- 


174  HAWTHORNE 

posite.  The  Puritan  setting  of  the  scene  was  sim 
ple  and  dignified,  and  passes  before  the  eye  like  the 
scenes  of  a  play  with  fit  backgrounds  and  properties; 
but  on  that  quasi-religious  stage  the  movement  and 
color  and  tone  seem  almost  operatic,  and  the  land 
scapes,  groups  and  tableaux  a  performance  of  for 
eign  opera.  The  Scarlet  Letter  itself  is  a  brilliant 
focus  for  all  the  meaning  of  the  tale ;  and  as  it  comes 
again  and  again  in  the  child  and  in  the  sky  and  on 
the  minister's  breast,  it  varies  without  changing  the 
central  theme,  till  it  dies  out  in  the  fatal  climax 
and  collapse  of  the  drama'.  Hester,  herself,  seems  an 
operatic  character,  sole  and  simple  in  eminence,  and 
Pearl  an  operatic  child.  Fantasy,  more  than  reality, 
envelops  the  scene.  The  suffering  after  the  sin  en 
nobles  the  theme  with  moral  grandeur.  The  abstract 
element, — namely,  that  this  is  a  story,  not  of  indi 
viduals,  but  of  the  fatal  penalties  of  violated  law 
working  out  its  nature  in  the  human  breast, — is 
felt  from  the  rise  to  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  But  the 
art  by  which  this  is  rendered  is  not,  one  feels,  quite 
dramatic  or  operatic ;  it  is  something  more  original 
and  idiosyncratic,  peculiar,  indeed,  to  Hawthorne, — 
Hawthornesque ;  the  art  of  a  fantastic  imagination, 
ingenious  in  its  methods,  somewhat  skeptical  of  its 
own  vision,  somber  in  meditation,  brooding  on  sin 
after  the  fashion  of  old  New  England. 

Any  art,  literary  or  other,  is,  to  a  certain  extent, 
shut  within  its  own  age,  and  can  be  thoroughly  un 
derstood  in  all  its  tones  and  shades,  and  will  seem 


THE   GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     175 

wholly  natural,  only  to  the  spirit  of  that  age.  The 
world's  greatest  works,  works  of  universal  art,  alone 
escape  this  limitation.  The  Scarlet  Letter,  though 
it  has  aspects  of  universal'meaning,  is  essentially  a 
provincial  romance;  it  requires  a  contemporary  of 
Hawthorne  for  its  most  sympathetic  and  under 
standing  reader.  Its  peculiar  fantasy  will  come  nat 
ural,  indeed,  only  to  one  habituated  to  the  tone  of 
the  literature  of  that  time;  too  often  it  will  seem 
whimsical,  odd,  individualistic.  Other  writers  of  the 
age,  however,  had  such  a  fashion  of  thought  and  ex 
pression.  Contemporaneity  is,  perhaps,  still  more 
marked  in  that  vein  of  sentimentality,  from  which 
few  American  writers  were  wholly  free  in  the  first 
half  of  the  century,  and  which  is  occasionally  to  be 
observed  in  Hawthorne's  juvenile  and  slighter  work. 
The  early  years  of  Lowell,  even,  were  subject  to 
it,  and  it  had  its  peculiar  and  forgotten  memorials 
among  the  books  and  reputations  of  that  truly  lit 
erary  age.  The  traits  of  the  time  as  a  period,  inde 
pendent  of  persons,  have  never  been  made  out  in 
our  history;  but,  when  this  shall  be  done,  it  will  be 
found  that  both  fantasy  and.  sentimentality  were 
dominant  in  that  generation.  The  age  read,  as  well 
as  created  its  literature,  with  its  own  eyes;  and  in 
particular,  in  the  case  of  the  Puritan  romance,  it 
had  a  preconceived  notion  of  Puritanism,  derived 
from  its  own  tradition  and  reactions  thereon,  to 
which  it  instinctively  required  any  imaginative  ac 
count  of  it  to  conform.  It  may  be  doubted  whether 


176  HAWTHORNE 

the  eminent  Puritan  worthies  would  have  found  the 
romance  a  faithful  and  illuminating  record  of  their 
little  state,  but  it  certainly  represented  what  the  sev 
enth  or  eighth  generation  in  New  England  wished 
to  believe  of  their  founders.  In  other  words,  the 
romance  is  not  an  original  product  of  the  Puritan 
age,  but  a  history  written  long  after  the  facts,  in 
consonance  with  later  notions.  It  made  its  appeal  to 
a  generation  of  harsh  judgment,  as  regards  the 
Puritan  state,  that  found  the  hard  and  dark  ele 
ments  in  the  tale  agreeable  to  their  view  of  that 
older  life;  and  the  kind  of  art  employed,  with  its 
touches  of  fantasy  and  sentiment,  was  one  that 
might  almost  be  called  native  to  the  community. 

The  thoughtful  reader,  too,  can  not  fail  to  won 
der  to  what  an  extent  Hawthorne  was  actually  in 
terested  in  the  moral  problems  that  are  the  heart  of 
the  mystery  in  the  tale.  Artist  that  he  was  and  capa 
ble,  as  has  been  seen,  of  great  indifference  to  mortal 
concerns,  was  he  attracted  only  by  the  vivid  and 
condensed  story,  and  less  concerned  with  the  inner 
spiritual  histories  and  moralities?  The  attraction  of 
the  general  theme,  the  motifs  of  the  secrets  of  the 
bosom,  solitary  guilt  and  hypocrisy,  the  habit  of  his 
mind  to  brood  on  the  darker  aspects  of  man's  moral 
life  would  seem  to  certify  that  he  had  a  real  rather 
than  a  purely  artistic  interest  in  the  spiritual  history 
of  the  Puritan  outcasts.  This  may  readily  be 
granted.  As  an  artist,  indeed,  he  found  a  solution 
of  the  plots  in  the  tragic  reversal,  bringing  about  the 


THE  GREAT   PURITAN   ROMANCE     I/. 

minister's  confession  and  public  exposure;  but,  as  a 
moralist,  he  found  no  solution,  inasmuch  as  the  con 
fession  left  things  very  much  as  they  were,  with  no 
visible  absolution  or  forgiveness.  The  sin  is  repre 
sented  as  irreparable;  the  broken  order  of  life  is  in 
no  sense  restored.  There  is  nothing  left  at  the  end 
but  a  pitiful  tale  of  mortal  frailty,  and  its  issues.  It 
is  this  impotence  of  the  moralist  to  bring  his  tale  to 
a  conclusion,  as  the  artist  had  done,  which  makes 
the  discord  at  the  close.  One  feels  that  Hawthorne 
was  more  competent  in  art  than  in  meditation;  and 
this  sustains  the  impression  that  comes  from  many 
sides,  alike  of  his  work  and  of  his  nature,  that  he 
wras,  primarily,  an  artist  in  all  his  career.  This,  how 
ever,  does  not  at  all  impeach  the  reality,  and  indeed 
the  depth,  of  his  interest  in  the  moral  material, 
which  is  the  true  substance  of  all  his  work. 

It  must  be  plain,  from  the  tenor  of  these  observa 
tions  that  the  contemporaneity  of  his  own  time  en 
tered  into  Hawthorne's  great  Puritan  romance,  both 
in  art  and  thought,  to  a  degree  that  differentiates  it 
from  works  of  ideal  art,  truly  independent  of  time 
and  place.  It  is  engaged  in  the  literary  and  moral 
fashions  of  its  times,  and  so  shot  through  with  the 
temperament  of  old  New  England  as  Hawthorne 
knew  it,  as  to  make  the  modern  reader  not  wholly 
sympathetic  with  either  the  substance  or  the  manner 
of  the  tale;  it  must  strike  him,  in  many  ways,  as  old- 
fashioned.  Universal  as  the  theme  is,  it  is  given  in 
a  strictly  New  England  view,  and  is  colored  by 


178  HAWTHORNE 

ways  of  feeling  and  expression  that  belong  to  a  past 
age.  It  is  not  characteristically,  but  only  historically, 
an  American  tale ;  truly  speaking,  both  by  its  origin 
and  its  manner,  it  is  purely  of  New  England.  The 
isolation  of  the  scene,  the  condensation  of  the  motif, 
the  great  abstractness  of  the  content,  which  are  all 
somewhat  dependent  on  the  strong  use  made  of 
symbolism  by  means  of  the  letter,  give  an  appear 
ance  of  universal  art,  but  on  a  closer  examination  it 
proves  to  be  less  an  expression  of  the  general  heart 
of  man  than  a  product  of  a  local  environment.  The 
Scarlet  Letter  is  the  chief  monument  that  the  New 
England  literary  age  left  behind  it  in  fiction.  It  is 
the  ornament  of  a  small  though  flourishing  litera 
ture,  and  the  fruit,  in  its  idea,  of  a  peculiar  religious 
society  in  a  remote  quarter  of  a  sparsely  inhabited 
world ;  it  belongs  by  both  these  traits  to  the  provin 
cial  in  literature,  and  the  more  it  is  examined,  the 
more  evident  is  the  texture  of  contemporaneity  and 
locality  in  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  NEW  ENGLANDER  ABROAD 

IT  was  the  lot  of  this  New  Englander  to  go  abroad, 
— not  merely  to  England,  which  was  but  a  change 
of  homes,  as  from  county  to  county,  Berkshire  to 
Essex, — but  to  another  and  different  world,  to  Italy. 
Hawthorne  is  our  chief  example  of  the  picturesque 
early  American  tourist.  Irving,  indeed,  had  viewed 
Spain,  and  Bayard  Taylor  tramped  the  Orient ;  but 
Italy  came  fresh  from  Hawthorne's  pen.  His  nature 
was  predisposed  to  the  experience  by  virtue  of  that 
predilection  for  artistic  things,  which  has  already 
been  commented  on  as  evinced  almost  from  the  be 
ginning  of  his  career,  and  by  a  certain  amateurish 
interest  in  portraits  and  carving  and  artistic  handi 
work  of  various  sorts,  noticeable  throughout  his 
writings.  To  such  an  observant  eye,  and  to  a  mind 
so  stored  with  sentiment  and  imagination,  Italy  be 
came  at  once  an  environment  as  close  as  his  own 
Berkshire  hills  or  Essex  woods;  he  wrote  about  it 
with  the  same  minuteness  and  precision  of  object 
and  outline,  as  to  the  external  scene,  and  he  caught 
its  atmosphere  of  classic  myth  or  medieval  aspect 
or  simple,  idyllic,  momentary  charm  as  naturally  as 
if  they  were  only  a  new  variety  of  the  mosses  about 

179 


180  HAWTHORNE 

his  own  Old  Manse.  His  note-books  show  how  his 
senses  became  filled  with  Italy  as  in  those  days  it 
came  first  to  the  eyes  of  the  sentimental  and  faithful 
tourist ;  and  it  is  this  vision, — for  it  can  scarcely  be 
called  less, — that  he  spread  before  his  old  readers 
in  The  Marble  Faun,  with  its  gardens,  its  galleries 
and  churches  and  squares,  Monte  Beni  with  its 
"sunshine"  wine,  the  golden  atmosphere  of  the  hills, 
the  frolic  of  the  carnival,  and  the  thousand  minute 
Italian  touches  that  make  up  the  ground  of  that  pic 
tured  story.  The  environment  is  all  Italian,  as  he 
had  eyes  to  see  it,  as  in  his  earlier  tales  it  had  been 
all  New  England.  The  scene  is  really  separate 
from  the  tale,  however  closely  inwoven  the  latter 
seems,  like  figures  in  a  tapestry ;  but  the  history  that 
is  displayed  on  this  background  and  runs  in  and  out 
of  the  landscape  scenes,  is  a  pure  New  England 
fable. 

It  is  needful  to  draw  sharply  the  distinction  be 
tween  the  moral  tale,  with  the  general  type  of  which 
the  reader  of  Hawthorne  is  already  acquainted,  and 
the  fascination  of  the  Italian  scene  in  which  it  is  set. 
They  are  opposed  very  much  as  the  ancestral  curse 
in  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  is  relieved 
against  the  manners  and  customs  and  aspects  of  old 
Salem.  Rome  is  the  scene  of  the  play;  but  the  the 
ater  is  as  interesting  as  the  drama,  to  say  the  least ; 
perhaps,  in  the  issue,  it  is  more  so.  The  story,  then, 
which  must  be  the  chief  thing  in  a  novel,  is  after 
Hawthorne's  well-established  make.  The  characters 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     181 

are  few, — substantially  only  four,  Donatello,  Mir 
iam,  Hilda  and  Kenyon,  the  first  three  sharply  con 
trasted,  the  last  of  a  neutral  tint  and  hardly  more 
than  a  convenience  in  the  narrative.  Hawthorne 
takes  no  marked  interest  in  them  as  persons,  though 
he  displays  more  feeling  for  Donatello' s  youth  than 
is  customary  with  him.  There  is,  perhaps,  here  a 
reflection  of  the  impression  made  upon  him  by  an 
Italian  trait, — that  southern  gaiety  of  spirit,  un 
known  to  northern  temperaments.  However,  he  was 
as  little  concerned  to  tell  anything  of  the  after-life 
of  Donatello  as  he  was  to  speak  clearly  of  the  earlier 
life  of  Miriam;  he  was  indifferent  to  their  personal 
fortunes.  His  interest,  quite  as  plainly  as  in  The 
Scarlet  Letter,  is  restricted  to  the  abstract  element 
in  the  tale,  namely,  its  moral  truth.  How  did  their 
careers  illustrate  this,  and  make  it  evident,  is  all  his 
question.  Miriam  is  a  woman  with  an  unknown 
past,  and  acquainted  with  evil,  though  under  what 
form  is  not  told;  Donatello  is  a  type  of  natural  inno 
cence,  brought  in  contact  with  her  by  his  love  and 
so  led  to  an  impulsive  crime  in  her  behalf;  his  crime, 
felt  to  be  sin,  results  in  such  spiritual  development 
that  it  can  only  be  described  by  saying  his  soul  was 
born  thereby.  The  birth  of  the  soul  through  sin  is 
the  moral  theme ;  the  scene  is  staged  for  it ;  the  plot 
is  made  for  it;  the  characters  fulfil  their  part  in 
merely  illustrating  it.  This  being  the  end  in  view, 
the  characters  are  suppressed,  except  so  far  as  they 
advance  it. 


182  HAWTHORNE 

What  has  hitherto  been  designated  the  economy 
of  Hawthorne's  art  is  shown,  not  only  in  this  re 
striction  of  the  characters,  but  by  the  elimination  of 
action,  both  of  which  were  customary  marks  of  his 
manner.  The  act  which  is  central  and  capital  in  the 
plot  is  the  least  of  an  act  possible,  in  the  circum 
stances;  though  it  is  nothing  less  than  murder,  it 
occupies  but  a  brief  space,  a  moment,  of  the  tale,  and 
though  it  was  the  climax  of  Miriam's  former  and 
darker  life,  it  is  substantially  unexplained.  The  im 
pulse,  which  led  Donatello  to  do  the  deed  by  a  sud 
den  seizure  of  emotion,  seems  disconnected  with 
any  facts  of  that  interior  tragedy,  whatever  its  na 
ture.  The  act,  once  done,  appears  wholly  severed 
from  its  circumstances ;  it  is  not  a  particular  crime, 
with  a  history  and  explanation  of  its  own,  but  a 
sin, — sin  in  the  abstract.  Any  other  crime  would 
have  served  the  purpose;  what  was  essential  to  the 
story  was  the  destruction  of  Donatello's  innocence. 
The  situation  is  not  so  different  to  that  of  The 
Scarlet  Letter,  where  there  is  a  like  indifference  to 
the  element  of  action.  There  the  sin  was  previous  to 
the  opening  of  the  scene,  here  it  is  a  partojf  the  nar 
rative,  but  in  either  case  it  is  a  fact  presupposed  by 
the  story,  an  hypothesis  given;  the  interest  in  both 
is  not  in  the  action,  but  in  the  suffering.  The  action, 
in  other  words,  like  the  characters,  is  subordinated 
to  the  moral  thesis,  \vKich  is,  again,  the  main  subject 
of  meditation, — the  history  of  the  soul  in  sin;  and 
the  method,  by  which  Hawthorne  discloses  this  his- 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     183 

tory,  is  not  by  action,  but  by  portraying  in  indirect 
ways  states  of  the  soul.  The  physical  image,  how 
ever,  which  had  served  him  so  long  as  an  interpreter 
of  moral  phenomena,  had  now  exhausted  its  powers, 
at  least  in  its  original  form  of  a  clear  and  definite 
object  in  which  significance  could  be  concentrated 
and  reinforced  by  various  devices.  A  relic  of  it  re 
mains  in  the  pointed  ears  of  the  Faun,  hesitatingly 
ascribed  to  Donatello,  as  the  sign  and  symbol  of  his 
ancestral  heritage  of  a  state  of  nature  which  his 
mortal  sin  disturbed;  but  it  is  only  a  relic  and  sur 
vival  of  the  earlier  manner,  and  plays  no  serious  part 
in  the  new  tale. 

The  intent  of  the  story  is  plain.  It  is  a  meditation 
on  the  effects  of  sin  on  a  state  of  nature,  on  that 
simple  innocence  which,  legends  tell,  filled  the  Ar 
cadian  world  before 

"disproportioned  sin 

Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made." 

Donatello  is  an  inhabitant,  a  "strayed  reveller/'  as  it 
were,  from  that  virgin  and  paradisiacal  region.  He 
is  snared  in  the  earthly  curse ;  and  the  tale  is  of  his 
transformation  into  a  different  being,  a  spiritual  be 
ing,  whose  experience  of  sin  had  made  him  human 
by  developing  in  him  the  sorrowful  but  intelligent 
soul  that  is  characteristic  of  humanity.  This  is  a 
higher  state,  in  the  hierarchy  of  being,  it  would  ap 
pear,  than  the  primeval  mountain  innocence  he  had 
known  in  his  youth.  But  the  matter  is  perplexing. 


184  HAWTHORNE 

For  one  thing,  clearly  this  new  Fall  of  Man  is  sub 
stantially  a  rise  in  spiritual  grade.  The  conception 
of  sin  as  a  means  of  grace  is,  in  a  sense,  paradoxical. 
Hawthorne  must  have  felt  the  black  drop  in  this 
philosophy.  At  all  events,  here,  no  less  than  in  The 
Scarlet  Letter,  he  told  a  tale  of  doomed  lives  for 
which  there  is  no  issue ;  Donatello  and  Miriam  go  to 
their  unknown  fate,  at  the  end,  in  great  mystery,  but 
if  Kenyon's  parting  address  to  them — a  perfectly 
correct  little  sermon  from  the  New  England  stand 
point — is  any  indication  of  what  was  in  store  for 
their  mortal  fate,  there  was  to  be  only  a  secondary 
and  tempered  happiness  for  them,  if  any.  The  diffi 
culty  seems  to  be  that  Hawthorne  was  better  aware 
of  the  ways  into  tragedy  than  of  the  ways  that  lead 
out.  At  all  events,  whatever  his  flashes  of  knowl 
edge,  or  intuition,  of  the  maladies  of  the  soul,  his 
spiritual  solutions  are  unsatisfactory.  They  are,  in 
fact,  no  solutions;  they  end  in  closed  ways,  over 
which  he  drops  a  veil. 

The  difficulty,  implicit  in  his  artistic  methods,  of 
representing  the  states  of  the  soul,  which  he  desires 
to  express,  is  the  same  here  as  in  the  earlier  romance 
of  sin  in  soul.  In  the  absence  of  such  a  symbol  as 
the  Scarlet  Letter,  he  resorts  to  many  physical 
images,  instead  of  one,  which  serve  him  as  so  many 
mirrors  of  unspoken  thoughts  or  distant  events;  and 
he  uses  myth  and  fancy  to  reduplicate  the  themes 
and  moods  that  are  dominant  in  the  play  of  his  im 
agination.  The  scene  of  the  drawings  and  sketches, 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     185 

the  introduction  of  the  figures  of  St.  Michael  and 
the  Cenci,  the  myth  of  the  fountain  nymph  and  her 
knightly  lover  illustrate  this  reverberation  of  idea 
and  emotion  from  episode  to  episode  through  the 
unfolding  stages  of  the  narrative;  in  essence,  though 
superficially  different,  it  is  the  same  method  as  that 
employed  in  the  Puritan  tale  by  the  repeated  emer 
gence  of  the  Scarlet  Letter  on  its  various  back 
grounds.  The  sense  of  the  blood-stain,  the  touch  of 
pollution,  the  loss  of  purity  are  made,  though  only 
in  consciousness,  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the 
change  wrought  in  Donatello;  his  suffering  in  his 
new  moodiness  is  plain ;  but,  when  the  most  has  been 
done  to  externalize  and  give  color  and  form  to  his 
spiritual  history,  the  legend  of  the  birth  of  the  soul 
remains  obscure.  He  had  become  aware  of  dark  and 
terrible  elements  in  the  world  and  of  strange  and  ill- 
understood  reactions  within  him  in  response  to  ex 
periences  he  had  blindly  encountered, — this  is  all 
that  is  told  of  the  matter.  It  seems  inadequate  for 
such  a  history  as  was  seemingly  undertaken. 

The  assumption  of  the  myth  of  the  world  before 
sin,  the  Rousseau-like  state  of  nature,  the  prehu 
man,  faun-and-nymph  wrorld,  is  easily  made  in  that 
land  of  classical  fragments  and  visible  joy;  and 
Hawthorne  describes  it  with  his  New  England  pen 
of  light  fantasy  and  wild  nature.  The  forest  of  the 
new  world  had  prepared  his  heart  for  it.  The  scene 
of  the  murder  breaks  in  on  this  sunny  landscape, — a 
midnight  scene  in  ruins.  It  is  a  chapter  of  theatrical 


186  HAWTHORNE 

romance,  by  itself,  and  seems  like  an  extract  from 
an  old,  so-called  "Gothic"  tale.  Then  comes  the  long 
and  delaying  after-play  of  fate,  in  the  slow  and 
dumb  torture  of  the  nascent  soul,  surprised  in  its 
birth  by  the  rising  and  hostile  shapes  of  sorrow. 
Perhaps  the  most  vivid  moment,  the  most  condensed 
form  of  the  transformation  of  Donatello,  is  when 
he  makes  trial  of  his  boyhood  power  of  confident 
converse  with  the  creatures  of  the  wood,  and  finds 
that  the  old  spell  that  made  him  a  friend  of  the  wild 
and  innocent  world,  is  gone.  What  is  evident  in  all 
this  is  the  intent  of  the  moral  tale;  but  what  charms 
is  the  scene,  whether  it  be  the  sylvan  dance  in  the 
gardens,  the  tragic  Tarpeian  rock  at  midnight,  or 
the  Italian  burst  of  wild  weeping  over  the  passing 
of  youth. 

The  three  episodes  characterize  the  stages  of  the 
tale.  The  first  is  a  glade  of  Eden  before  the  en 
trance  of  the  serpent,  and  is,  perhaps,  in  feature  and 
atmosphere,  the  gayest  passage  in  Hawthorne's  al 
bum  of  old-fashioned  fancies.  It  is  almost  a  reverie, 
so  still  and  dreamlike  is  the  motion,  so  pictorial  in 
effect  that  it  issues  naturally,  and  by  unobserved 
transition,  in  the  marble  dance  of  the  sarcophagus, 
with  its  tragic  suggestion  of  change  and  fate, — till 
all  is  dissipated,  and  the  scene  is  brought  back  to 
reality  with  the  forward  leap  of  the  demon  of  the 
play,  "the  model,"  into  the  living  group : 

"Donatello,  brisk  and  cheerful  as  he  seemed  be- 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER   ABROAD     187 

fore,  showed  a  sensibility  to  Miriam's  gladdened 
mood  by  breaking  into  still  wilder  and  ever-vary 
ing  activity.  He  frisked  around  her,  bubbling  over 
with  joy,  which  clothed  itself  in  words  that  had 
little  individual  meaning,  and  in  snatches  of  song 
that  seemed  as  natural  as  bird-notes.  Then  they 
both  laughed  together,  and  heard  their  own  laugh 
ter  returning  the  echoes,  and  laughed  again  at  the 
response,  so  that  the  ancient  and  solemn  grove  be 
came  full  of  merriment  for  these  two  blithe  spirits. 
A  bird  happening  to  sing  cheerily,  Donatello  gave  a 
peculiar  call,  and  the  little  feathered  creature  came 
fluttering  about  his  head,  as  if  it  had  known  him 
through  many  summers. 

"  'How  close  he  stands  to  nature !'  said  Miriam, 
observing  this  pleasant  familiarity  between  her  com 
panion  and  the  bird.  'He  shall  make  me  as  natural 
as  himself  for  this  one  hour/  .  .  . 

"So  the  shadowy  Miriam  almost  outdid  Donatello 
on  his  own  ground.  They  ran  races  with  each 
other,  side  by  side,  with  shouts  and  laughter;  they 
pelted  one  another  with  early  flowers,  and  gathering 
them  up  twined  them  with  green  leaves  into  gar 
lands  for  both  their  heads.  They  played  together 
like  children,  or  creatures  of  immortal  youth.  So 
much  had  they  flung  aside  the  sombre  habitudes  of 
daily  life,  that  they  seemed  born  to  be  sportive  for 
ever,  and  endowed  with  eternal  mirthfulness  instead 
of  any  deeper  joy.  It  was  a  glimpse  far  backward 
into  Arcadian  life,  or,  further  still,  into  the  Golden 


188  HAWTHORNE 

Age,  before  mankind  was  burdened  with  sin  and 
sorrow,  and  before  pleasure  had  been  darkened  with 
those  shadows  that  bring  it  into  high  relief,  and 
make  it  happiness. 

"  'Hark !'  cried  Donatello,  stopping  short,  as  he 
was  about  to  bind  Miriam's  fair  hands  with  flowers, 
and  lead  her  along  in  triumph,  'there  is  music  some 
where  in  the  grove !' 

'  'It  is  your  kinsman,  Pan,  most  likely,'  said  Mir 
iam,  'playing  on  his  pipe.  Let  us  go  seek  him,  and 
make  him  puff  out  his  rough  cheeks  and  pipe  his 
merriest  air!  Come;  the  strain  of  music  will  guide 
us  onward  like  a  gaily  colored  thread  of  silk.' 

"  'Or  like  a  chain  of  flowers/  responded  Dona 
tello,  drawing  her  along  by  that  which  he  had 
twined.  'This  way ! — Come !' 

"As  the  music  came  fresher  on  their  ears,  they 
danced  to  its  cadence,  extemporizing  new  steps  and 
attitudes.  Each  varying  movement  had  a  grace 
which  might  have  been  worth  putting  into  marble, 
for  the  long  delight  of  days  to  come,  but  vanished 
with  the  movement  that  gave  it  birth,  and  was  ef 
faced  from  memory  by  another.  In  Miriam's  mo 
tion,  freely  as  she  flung  herself  into  the  frolic  of  the 
hour,  there  was  still  an  artful  beauty;  in  Donatello's 
there  was  a  charm  of  indescribable  grotesqueness 
hand  in  hand  with  grace;  sweet,  bewitching,  most 
provocative  of  laughter,  and  yet  akin  to  pathos,  so 
deeply  did  it  touch  the  heart.  This  was  the  ultimate 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     189 

peculiarity,  the  final  touch,  distinguishing  between 
the  sylvan  creature  and  the  beautiful  companion  at 
his  side.  Setting  apart  only  this,  Miriam  resembled 
a  Nymph,  as  much  as  Donatello  did  a  Faun. 

''There  were  flitting  moments,  indeed,  when  she 
played  the  sylvan  character  as  perfectly  as  he.  Catch 
ing  glimpses  of  her,  then,  you  would  have  fancied 
that  an  oak  had  sundered  its  rough  bark  to  let  her 
dance  freely  forth,  endowed  with  the  same  spirit  in 
her  human  form  as  that  which  rustles  in  the  leaves ; 
or  that  she  had  emerged  through  the  pebbly  bottom 
of  a  fountain,  a  water-nymph,  to  play  and  sparkle 
in  the  sunshine,  flinging  a  quivering  light  around 
her,  and  suddenly  disappearing  in  a  shower  of  rain 
bow7  drops. 

"As  the  fountain  sometimes  subsides  into  its  basin, 
so  in  Miriam  there  were  symptoms  that  the  frolic 
of  her  spirits  would  at  last  tire  itself  out. 

"  'Ah !  Donatello/  cried  she,  laughing,  as  she 
stopped  to  take  breath;  'you  have  an  unfair  advan 
tage  over  me !  I  am  no  true  creature  of  the  woods; 
while  you  are  a  real  Faun,  I  do  believe.  When  your 
curls  shook  just  now,  methought  I  had  a  peep  at  the 
pointed  ears/ 

"Donatello  snapped  his  fingers  above  his  head,  as 
fauns  and  satyrs  taught  us  first  to  do,  and  seemed  to 
radiate  jollity  out  of  his  whole  nimble  person.  Never 
theless,  there  was  a  kind  of  dim  apprehension  in  his 
face,  as  if  he  dreaded  that  a  moment's  pause  might 


190  HAWTHORNE 

break  the  spell,  and  snatch  away  the  sportive  com 
panion  whom  he  had  waited  for  through  so  many 
dreary  months. 

"  'Dance !  dance !'  cried  he,  joyously.  'If  we  take 
breath,  we  shall  be  as  we  were  yesterday.  There, 
now,  is  the  music,  just  beyond  this  clump  of  trees. 
Dance,  Miriam,  dance T 

"They  had  now  reached  an  open,  grassy  glade  (of 
which  there  are  many  in  that  artfully  constructed 
wilderness),  set  round  with  stone  seats,  on  which 
the  aged  moss  had  kindly  essayed  to  spread  itself 
instead  of  cushions.  On  one  of  the  stone  benches 
sat  the  musicians,  whose  strains  had  enticed  our  wild 
couple  thitherward.  They  proved  to  be  a  vagrant 
band,  such  as  Rome,  and  all  Italy,  abounds  with; 
comprising  a  harp,  a  flute,  and  a  violin,  which, 
though  greatly  the  worse  for  wear,  the  performers 
had  skill  enough  to  provoke  and  modulate  into  tol 
erable  harmony.  It  chanced  to  be  a  feast-day ;  and, 
instead  of  playing  in  the  sun-scorched  piazzas  of  the 
city,  or  beneath  the  windows  of  some  unresponsive 
palace,  they  had  bethought  themselves  to  try  the 
echoes  of  these  woods;  for,  on  the  festas  of  the 
Church,  Rome  scatters  its  merry-makers  all  abroad, 
ripe  for  the  dance  or  any  other  pastime. 

"As  Miriam  and  Donatello  emerged  from  among 
the  trees,  the  musicians  scraped,  tinkled,  or  blew, 
each  according  to  his  various  kind  of  instrument, 
more  inspiringly  than  ever.  A  dark-cheeked  little 
girl,  with  bright  black  eyes,  stood  by,  shaking  a  tarn- 


,      THE  NEW   ENGLANDER   ABROAD     191 

bourine  set  round  with  tinkling  bells,  and  thumping 
it  on  its  parchment  head.  Without  interrupting  his 
brisk,  though  measured  movement,  Donatello 
snatched  away  this  unmelodious  contrivance,  and 
flourishing  it  above  his  head,  produced  music  of  in 
describable  potency,  still  dancing  with  frisky  step, 
and  striking  the  tambourine,  and  ringing  its  little 
bells,  all  in  one  jovial  act.  .  .  . 

"The  harper  thrummed  with  rapid  fingers;  the 
violin-player  flashed  his  bow  back  and  forth  across 
the  strings;  the  flautist  poured  his  breath  in  quick 
puffs  of  jollity,  while  Donatello  shook  the  tambour 
ine  above  his  head,  and  led  the  merry  throng  with 
unweariable  steps.  As  they  followed  one  another  in 
a  wild  ring  of  mirth,  it  seemed  the  realization  of  one 
of  those  bas-reliefs  where  a  dance  of  nymphs,  satyrs, 
or  bacchanals  is  twined  around  the  circle  of  an  an 
tique  vase ;  or  it  was  like  the  sculptured  scene  on  the 
front  and  sides  of  a  sarcophagus,  where,  as  often  as 
any  other  device,  a  festive  procession  mocks  the 
ashes  and  white  bones  that  are  treasured  up  within. 
You  might  take  it  for  a  marriage-pageant;  but  after 
a  while,  if  you  look  at  those  merry-makers,  follow 
ing  them  from  end  to  end  of  the  marble  coffin,  you 
doubt  whether  their  gay  movement  is  leading  them 
to  a  happy  close.  A  youth  has  suddenly  fallen  in 
the  dance ;  a  chariot  is  overturned  and  broken,  fling 
ing  the  charioteer  headlong  to  the  ground ;  a  maiden 
seems  to  have  grown  faint  or  weary  and  is  drooping 
on  the  bosom  of  a  friend.  Always  some  tragic  inci- 


192  HAWTHORNE 

dent  is  shadowed  forth  or  thrust  sidelong  into  the 
spectacle ;  and  when  once  it  has  caught  your  eye  you 
can  look  no  more  at  the  festal  portions  of  the  scene, 
except  with  reference  to  this  one  slightly  suggested 
doom  and  sorrow. 

"As  in  its  mirth,  so  in  the  darker  characteristic 
here  alluded  to,  there  was  an  analogy  between  the 
sculptured  scene  on  the  sarcophagus  and  the  wild 
dance  which  we  have  been  describing.  In  the  midst 
of  its  madness  and  riot  Miriam  found  herself  sud 
denly  confronted  by  a  strange  figure  that  shook  its 
fantastic  garments  in  the  air,  and  pranced  before 
her  on  its  tiptoes,  almost  vying  with  the  agility  of 
Donatello  himself.  It  was  the  model." 

It  is  impossible  to  escape  a  certain  feeling  of  un 
reality  in  this  scene.  It  has  the  artificiality  of  the 
stage,  or,  better,  the  opera, — of  something  arranged 
and  made  to  be  looked  at.  It  is  too  visibly,  to  use 
the  word  hitherto  employed,  a  tableau,  a  wall-fresco, 
an  echo  of  the  sarcophagus.  It  is  not  often  that  fine 
art,  in  the  strict  sense,  moulds  the  form  and  expres 
sion  of  literature  is  so  manifest  a  way.  Hawthorne's 
artistic  senses, — his  eye  for  line  and  shape  and  light, 
for  grouping  and  relief,  were,  no  doubt,  vividly  re 
inforced  by  the  arts  in  Italy;  he  always  had  a  cer 
tain  taste  and  tendency  toward  visible  art,  as  has 
been  observed  above;  but  no  small  portion  of  the 
gaiety  and  natural  high  spirits  of  this  scene  came 
from  observation  and  his  fresh  contacts  with  life 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     193 

itself  in  Italy  in  its  free  and  primitive  forms.  The 
impression  of  unreality,  as  of  a  picture  or  bas-relief, 
is  undeniable ;  but  it  is  no  greater  than  that  which  in 
vades  the  mind  in  reading  some  of  Hawthorne's 
New  England  sketches,  the  insubstantiality  of 
which,  when  dream  or  reverie  or  fantasy  seems  to 
control  his  imagination,  has  been  mentioned.  The 
whole  conception  of  the  care- free  primitive  world  in 
which  the  faun-like  nature  of  Donatello  had  its 
birth  and  being,  and  of  which  the  dance  is  but  a 
symbolic  manifestation,  is  of  no  stronger  woof.  It 
is  all  an  invention  of  Hawthorne's  brain,  drawn  from 
the  Golden  Age,  and  memories  of  Tanglewood,  and 
the  vision  of  Italy.  Its  unreality  is  its  charm. 

It  must  be  acknowledged,  too,  that  a  kindred  un 
reality  pervades  the  next  scene,  that  of  the  murder, 
The  act  itself,  being  reduced  to  the  lowest  possible 
terms,  occupies  but  a  line  or  two.  The  outstanding 
fact  of  the  situation  is  not  the  death,  but  the  passion 
of  the  two  lovers,  first  truly  known  in  their  moral 
communion  in  the  crime.  The  "rage"'  of  Donatello, 
which  "had  kindled  him  into  a  man"  and  "had  de 
veloped  within  him  an  intelligence,"  is  briefly  dwelt 
on;  but  it  is  the  moment  after,  when  Miriam  and 
Donatello  drew  together,  "arm  in  arm,  heart  in 
heart,"  that  is  expanded  in  their  consciousness.  The 
exaltation  of  feeling  at  this  climax  of  guilt  is  notice 
able,  and  recalls  the  much  briefer  words,  already 
quoted,  which  denoted  the  same  climax  in  the  earlier 
case  of  Hester  and  the  Puritan  minister;  the  later 


194  HAWTHORNE 

lovers,  not  unlike  the  former  pair,  were  brought  to 
gether  in  "one  emotion,  and  that  a  kind  of  rapture," 
in  their  embrace ;  the  world  seemed  annihilated,  and 
they  to  live  in  a  sphere  of  their  own.    This  may  be 
correct  psychological  analysis;  violent  and  unknown 
emotions  disturb  the  sanity  of  the  universe,  as  it 
were,  and  give  rise  to  spectral  scenes ;  but  the  move 
ments  and  the  mood  of  Donatello  and  Miriam  as 
they  emerge  from  the  murder  have  just  the  unreal 
ity,   the  nervous  tension,  of  high-strung  tragedy. 
Without  meaning  to  place  the  two  instances  on  a 
par,  the  parallel  between  "the  far-off  noise  of  sing 
ing  and  laughter"  of  their  companions  and  "the 
knocking  at  the  gate"  in  Macbeth  is  obvious;  but 
here  one  still  remains  with  the  murder,  inside  the 
gate.     The  exaltation  of  feeling  in  Donatello  and 
Miriam  continues ;  it  blends  with  great  Roman  mem 
ories  of  imperial  tragedy;  and  it  fades  out  in  that 
strange  and  terrifying  climax  of  thought  and  feel 
ing  which  makes  all  criminals  one  kindred. 

The  touch  of  fever  at  such  a  moment  in  a  tragic 
story,  the  note  of  delirium,  the  unforeseen  motion  of 
thought  in  the  wild  whirl  of  emotion,  unnatural  and 
paradoxical  as  they  may  seem,  are  true  to  a  distem 
pered  nature;  unreality  is  just  the  impression  that 
ought  to  be  given.  It  is  not  for  the  purpose,  how 
ever,  of  illustrating  the  ways  of  literary  art  that 
these  remarks  are  made,  but  rather  to  show  how 
thoroughgoing  is  the  artistic  unreality  of  this  ro 
mance,  in  all  its  creative  facts,  as  distinguished  from 


THE  NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     195 

those  that  merely  reproduce  the  aspects  and  things 
of  the  actual  Italy  of  Hawthorne's  day.  The  Golden 
Age  and  the  moral  law  belong  to  no  period,  to  no 
land  nor  climate.  The  legend  and  the  tale  of  Monte 
Beni  lift  far  away  from  realism  in  any  form;  they 
were  conceived  in  the  pure  sphere  of  the  imagina 
tion,  where  "things  more  real  than  living  man"  in 
habit;  and  this  trait,  wherein  the  genius  of  the  work 
consists,  is  most  manifest  in  such  "unrealities"  as 
have  been  dwelt  on  in  these  comments  on  both  the 
pastoral  dance  and  the  tragedy.  But  behold  the 
tragedy, — before  and  after! 

"Meanwhile  Miriam  had  not  noticed  the  depart 
ure  of  the  rest  of  the  company;  she  remained  on  the 
edge  of  the  precipice  and  Donatello  along  \vith  her. 

"  'It  would  be  a  fatal  fall,  still/  she  said  to  her 
self,  looking  over  the  parapet,  and  shuddering  as 
her  eye  measured  the  depth.  'Yes ;  surely  yes !  Even 
without  the  weight  of  an  overburdened  heart,  a  hu 
man  body  would  fall  heavily  enough  upon  those 
stones  to  shake  all  its  joints  asunder.  How  soon  it 
would  be  over !' 

"Donatello,  of  whose  presence  she  was  possibly 
not  aware,  now  pressed  closer  to  her  side;  and  he, 
too,  like  Miriam,  bent  over  the  low7  parapet  and 
trembled  violently.  Yet  he  seemed  to  feel  that  per 
ilous  fascination  which  haunts  the  brow  of  preci 
pices,  tempting  the  unwary  one  to  fling  himself  over 
for  the  very  horror  of  the  thing,  for,  after  drawing 


196  HAWTHORNE 

hastily  back,  he  again  looked  down,  thrusting  him 
self  out  farther  than  before.  He  then  stood  silent 
a  brief  space,  struggling,  perhaps,  to  make  himself 
conscious  of  the  historic  associations  of  the  scene. 

"  'What  are  you  thinking  of,  Donatello?'  asked 
Miriam. 

"  'Who  are  they/  said  he,  looking  earnestly  in  her 
face,  'who  have  been  flung  over  here  in  days 
gone  by?' 

"  'Men  that  cumbered  the  world/  she  replied. 
'Men  whose  lives  were  the  bane  of  their  fellow- 
creatures.  Men  who  poisoned  the  air,  which  is  the 
common  breath  of  all,  for  their  own  selfish  pur 
poses.  There  was  short  work  with  such  men  in  old 
Roman  times.  Just  in  the  moment  of  their  triumph, 
a  hand,  as  of  an  avenging  giant,  clutched  them,  and 
dashed  the  wretches  down  this  precipice/ 

"  'Was  it  well  done  ?'  asked  the  young  man. 

'  'It  was  well  done/  answered  Miriam ;  'innocent 
persons  were  saved  by  the  destruction  of  a  guilty 
one,  who  deserved  his  doom/ 

"While  this  brief  conversation  passed,  Donatello 
had  once  or  twice  glanced  aside  with  a  watchful  air, 
just  as  a  hound  may  often  be  seen  to  take  sidelong 
note  of  some  suspicious  object,  while  he  gives  his 
more  direct  attention  to  something  nearer  at  hand. 
Miriam  seemed  now  first  to  become  aware  of  the 
silence  that  had  followed  upon  the  cheerful  talk  and 
laughter  of  a  few  moments  before. 

"Looking  round;  she  perceived  that  all  her  com- 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     197 

pany  of  merry  friends  had  retired,  and  Hilda,  too, 
in  whose  soft  and  quiet  presence  she  had  always  an 
indescribable  feeling  of  security.  All  gone;  and 
only  herself  and  Donatello  left  hanging  over  the 
brow  of  the  ominous  precipice. 

"Not  so,  however;  not  entirely  alone !  In  the  base 
ment  wall  of  the  palace,  shaded  from  the  moon, 
there  was  a  deep,  empty  niche,  that  had  probably 
once  contained  a  statue ;  not  empty,  either ;  for  a  fig 
ure  now  came  forth  from  it  and  approached  Miriam. 
She  must  have  had  cause  to  dread  some  unspeakable 
evil  from  this  strange  persecutor,  and  to  know  that 
this  was  the  very  crisis  of  her  calamity;  for,  as  he 
drew  near,  such  a  cold,  sick  despair  crept  over  her, 
that  it  impeded  her  breath,  and  benumbed  her  natu 
ral  promptitude  of  thought.  Miriam  seemed  dream 
ily  to  remember  falling  on  her  knees;  but,  in  her 
whole  recollection  of  that  wTild  moment,  she  beheld 
herself  as  in  a  dim  show,  and  could  not  well  distin 
guish  what  was  done  and  suffered;  no,  not  even 
whether  she  were  really  an  actor  and  sufferer  in  the 
scene. 

"Hilda,  meanwhile,  had  separated  herself  from 
the  sculptor,  and  turned  back  to  rejoin  her  friend. 
At  a  distance,  she  still  heard  the  mirth  of  her  late 
companions,  who  were  going  down  the  cityward 
descent  of  the  Capitoline  Hill;  they  had  set  up  a  new 
stave  of  melody,  in  which  her  own  soft  voice,  as  well 
as  the  powerful  sweetness  of  Miriam's,  was  sadly 
missed. 


198  HAWTHORNE 

"The  door  of  the  little  court-yard  had  swung  upon 
its  hinges,  and  partly  closed  itself.  Hilda  (whose 
native  gentleness  pervaded  all  her  movements)  was 
quietly  opening  it,  when  she  was  startled,  midway, 
by  the  noise  of  a  struggle  within,  beginning  and  end 
ing  all  in  one  breathless  instant.  Along  with  it,  or 
closely  succeeding  it,  was  a  loud,  fearful  cry,  which 
quivered  upward  through  the  air,  and  sank  quiver 
ing  downward  to  the  earth.  Then,  a  silence !  Poor 
Hilda  had  looked  into  the  court-yard,  and  saw  the 
whole  quick  passage  of  a  deed,  which  took  but  that 
little  time  to  grave  itself  in  the  eternal  adamant. 

'The  door  of  the  court-yard  swung  slowly,  and 
closed  itself  of  its  own  accord.  Miriam  and  Dona- 
tello  were  now  alone  there.  She  clasped  her  hands, 
and  looked  wildly  at  the  young  man,  whose  form 
, seemed  to  have  dilated,  and  whose  eyes  blazed  with 
the  fierce  energy  that  had  suddenly  inspired  him.  It 
had  kindled  him  into  a  man ;  it  had  developed  within 
him  an  intelligence  which  was  no  native  characteris 
tic  of  the  Donatello  whom  we  have  heretofore 
known.  But  that  simple  and  joyous  creature  was 
gone  forever. 

"  'What  have  you  done  ?'  said  Miriam,  in  a  hor 
ror-stricken  whisper. 

"The  glow  of  rage  was  still  lurid  on  Donatello's 
face,  and  now  flashed  out  again  from  his  eyes. 

'  'I  did  what  ought  to  be  done  to  a  traitor !'  he  re 
plied.  'I  did  what  your  eyes  bade  me  do,  when  I 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER   ABROAD     199 

asked  them  with  mine,  as  I  held  the  wretch  over  the 
precipice !' 

"These  last  words  struck  Miriam  like  a  bullet. 
Could  it  be  so  ?  Had  her  eyes  provoked  or  assented 
to  this  deed  ?  She  had  not  known  it.  But,  alas ! 
looking  back  into  the  frenzy  and  turmoil  of  the  scene 
just  acted,  she  could  not  deny — she  was  not  sure 
whether  it  might  be  so,  or  no — that  a  wild  joy  had 
flamed  up  in  her  heart,  when  she  beheld  her  perse 
cutor  in  his  mortal  peril.  Was  it  horror? — or  ec 
stasy? — or  both  in  one?  Be  the  emotion  what  it 
might,  it  had  blazed  up  more  madly,  when  Donatello 
flung  his  victim  off  the  cliff,  and  more  and  more, 
while  his  shriek  went  quivering  downward.  With 
the  dead  thump  upon  the  stones  below  had  come  an 
unutterable  horror. 

'  'And  my  eyes  bade  you  do  it !'  repeated  she. 

"They  both  leaned  over  the  parapet,  and  gazed 
downward  as  earnestly  as  if  some  inestimable  treas 
ure  had  fallen  over,  and  were  yet  recoverable.  On 
the  pavement,  below,  was  a  dark  mass,  lying  in  a 
heap,  with  little  or  nothing  human  in  its  appearance, 
except  that  the  hands  were  stretched  out,  as  if  they 
might  have  clutched,  for  a  moment,  at  the  small 
square  stones.  But  there  was  no  motion  in  them 
now.  Miriam  watched  the  heap  of  mortality  while 
she  could  count  a  hundred,  which  she  took  pains  to 
do.  No  stir ;  not  a  finger  moved ! 

"  'You  have  killed  him,  Donatello !    He  is  quite 


200  HAWTHORNE 

dead!*  said  she.  'Stone  dead!  Would  I  were  so, 
too!' 

"  'Did  you  not  mean  that  he  should  die  ?'  sternly 
asked  Donatello,  still  in  the  glow  of  that  intelligence 
which  passion  had  developed  in  him.  'There  was 
short  time  to  weigh  the  matter ;  but  he  had  his  trial 
in  that  breath  or  two  while  I  held  him  over  the  cliff, 
and  his  sentence  in  that  one  glance,  when  your  eyes 
responded  to  mine!  Say  that  I  have  slain  him 
against  your  will, — say  that  he  died  without  your 
whole  consent, — and,  in  another  breath,  you  shall 
see  me  lying  beside  him/ 

"  'Oh,  never !'  cried  Miriam,  'My  one,  own 
friend!  Never,  never,  never!' 

"She  turned  to  him, — the  guilty,  blood-stained, 
lonely  woman, — she  turned  to  her  fellow-criminal, 
the  youth,  so  lately  innocent,  whom  she  had  drawn 
into  her  doom.  She  pressed  him  close,  close  to  her 
bosom,  with  a  clinging  embrace  that  brought  their 
two  hearts  together,  till  the  horror  and  agony  of 
each  was  combined  into  one  emotion,  and  that  a  kind 
of  rapture. 

"  'Yes,  Donatello,  you  speak  the  truth !'  said  she ; 
'my  heart  consented  to  what  you  did.  We  two  slew 
yonder  wretch.  The  deed  knots  us  together,  for 
time  and  eternity,  like  the  coil  of  a  serpent !' 

"They  threw  one  other  glance  at  the  heap  of 
death  below,  to  assure  themselves  that  it  was  there ; 
so  like  a  dream  was  the  whole  thing.  Then  they 
turned  from  that  fatal  precipice,  and  came  out  of 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     201 

the  court-yard,  arm  in  arm,  heart  in  heart.  Instinc 
tively,  they  were  heedful  not  to  sever  themselves  so 
much  as  a  pace  or  two  from  one  another,  for  fear 
of  the  terror  and  deadly  chill  that  would  thenceforth 
wait  for  them  in  solitude.  Their  deed — the  crime 
which  Donatello  wrought,  and  Miriam  accepted  on 
the  instant — had  wreathed  itself,  as  she  said,  like  a 
serpent,  in  inextricable  links  about  both  their  souls, 
and  drew  them  into  one,  by  its  terrible  contractile 
power.  It  was  closer  than  a  marriage-bond.  So  in 
timate,  in  those  first  moments,  was  the  union,  that 
it  seemed  as  if  their  new  sympathy  annihilated  all 
other  ties,  and  that  they  were  released  from  the 
chain  of  humanity;  a  new  sphere,  a  special  law,  had 
been  created  for  them  alone.  The  world  could  not 
come  near  them ;  they  were  safe ! 

"When  they  reached  the  flight  of  steps  leading 
downward  from  the  Capitol,  there  was  a  far-off 
noise  of  singing  and  laughter.  Swift,  indeed,  had 
been  the  rush  of  the  crisis  that  was  come  and  gone ! 
This  was  still  the  merriment  of  the  party  that  had  so 
recently  been  their  companions.  They  recognized 
the  voices  which,  a  little  while  ago,  had  accorded 
and  sung  in  cadence  with  their  own.  But  they  were 
familiar  voices  no  more;  they  sounded  strangely, 
and,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  depths  of  space;  so  re 
mote  was  all  that  pertained  to  the  past  life  of  these 
guilty  ones,  in  the  moral  seclusion  that  had  suddenly 
extended  itself  around  them.  But  how  close,  and 
ever  closer,  did  the  breath  of  the  immeasurable 


202  HAWTHORNE 

waste,  that  lay  between  them  and  all  brotherhood  or 
sisterhood,  now  press  them  one  within  the  other ! 

"  'O  friend P  cried  Miriam,  so  putting  her  soul 
into  the  word  that  it  took  a  heavy  richness  of  mean 
ing,  and  seemed  never  to  have  been  spoken  before, — 
'O  friend,  are  you  conscious,  as  I  am,  of  this  com 
panionship  that  knits  our  heart-strings  together?' 

"  'I  feel  it,  Miriam/  said  Donatello.  'We  draw 
one  breath;  we  live  one  life!' 

"  'Only  yesterday/  continued  Miriam ;  'nay,  only 
u  short  half-hour  ago,  I  shivered  in  an  icy  solitude. 
No  friendship,  no  sisterhood,  could  come  near 
enough  to  keep  the  warmth  within  my  heart.  In  an 
instant,  all  is  changed !  There  can  be  no  more  lone 
liness  P 

"  'None,  Miriam !'  said  Donatello. 

"'None,  my  beautiful  one!'  responded  Miriam, 
gazing  in  his  face,  which  had  taken  a  higher,  almost 
an  heroic  aspect,  from  the  strength  of  passion. 
'None,  my  innocent  one !  Surely,  it  is  no  crime  that 
we  have  committed.  One  wretched  and  worthless 
life  has  been  sacrificed  to  cement  two  other  lives  for 
evermore/ 

"  'For  evermore,  Miriam P  said  Donatello ;  'ce 
mented  with  his  blood  P 

"The  young  man  started  at  the  word  which  he  had 
himself  spoken;  it  may  be  that  it  brought  home,  to 
the  simplicity  of  his  imagination,  what  he  had  not 
before  dreamed  of, — the  ever-increasing  loathsome 
ness  of  a  union  that  consists  in  guilt.  Cemented 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER   ABROAD     203 

with  blood,  which  would  corrupt  and  grow  more 
noisome  forever  and  forever,  but  bind  them  none  the 
less  strictly  for  that. 

"'Forget  it!  Cast  it  all  behind  you!'  said  Mir 
iam,  detecting,  by  her  sympathy,  the  pang  that  was 
in  his  heart.  The  deed  has  done  its  office,  and  has 
no  existence  any  more.' 

"They  flung  the  past  behind  them,  as  she  coun 
selled,  or  else  distilled  from  it  a  fiery  intoxication, 
which  sufficed  to  carry  them  triumphantly  through 
those  first  moments  of  their  doom.  For,  guilt  has 
its  moment  of  rapture,  too.  The  foremost  result  of 
a  broken  law  is  ever  an  ecstatic  sense  of  freedom. 
And  thus  there  exhaled  upward  (out  of  their  dark 
sympathy,  at  the  base  of  which  lay  a  human  corpse) 
a  bliss,  or  an  insanity,  which  the  unhappy  pair  im 
agined  to  be  well  worth  the  sleepy  innocence  that 
was  forever  lost  to  them. 

"As  their  spirits  rose  to  the  solemn  madness  of 
the  occasion,  they  went  onward, — not  stealthily,  not 
fearfully, — but  with  a  stately  gait  and  aspect.  Pas 
sion  lent  them  (as  it  does  to  meaner  shapes)  its  brief 
nobility  of  carriage.  They  trod  through  the  streets 
of  Rome,  as  if  they,  too,  were  among  the  majestic 
and  guilty  shadows,  that,  from  ages  long  gone  by, 
have  haunted  the  blood-stained  city.  And,  at  Mir 
iam's  suggestion,  they  turned  aside,  for  the  sake  of 
treading  loftily  past  the  old  site  of  Pompey's  Forum. 

"  'For  there  was  a  great  deed  done  here !'  she  said, 
— "a  deed  of  blood  like  ours !  Who  knows,  but  we 


204  HAWTHORNE 

may  meet  the  high  and  ever-sad  fraternity  of 
Caesar's  murderers,  and  exchange  a  salutation?' 

"  'Are  they  our  brethren,  now?'  asked  Donatello. 

"  'Yes ;  all  of  them,'  said  Miriam ;  'and  many  an 
other,  whom  the  world  little  dreams  of,  has  been 
made  our  brother  or  our  sister,  by  what  we  have 
done  within  this  hour !' 

"And,  at  the  thought,  she  shivered.  Where,  then, 
was  the  seclusion,  the  remoteness,  the  strange,  lone 
some  Paradise,  into  which  she  and  her  one  compan 
ion  had  been  transported  by  their  crime  ?  Was  there, 
indeed,  no  such  refuge,  but  only  a  crowded  thor 
oughfare  and  jostling  throng  of  criminals?  And 
was  it  true,  that  whatever  hand  had  a  blood-stain  on 
it, — or  had  poured  out  poison, — or  strangled  a  babe 
at  its  birth, — or  clutched  a  grandsire's  throat,  he 
sleeping,  and  robbed  him  of  his  few  last  breaths, — 
had  now  the  right  to  offer  itself  in  fellowship  with 
their  two  hands  ?  Too  certainly,  that  right  existed. 
It  is  a  terrible  thought,  that  an  individual  wrong 
doing  melts  into  the  great  mass  of  human  crime,  and 
makes  us, — who  dreamed  only  of  our  own  little  sep 
arate  sin, — makes  us  guilty  of  the  whole.  And  thus 
Miriam  and  her  lover  were  not  an  insulated  pair, 
but  members  of  an  innumerable  confraternity  of 
guilty  ones,  all  shuddering  at  each  other." 

The  last  paragraph,  which  points  a  curious  inver 
sion  of  the  doctrine  of  the  communion  of  the  saints, 
is  characteristically  Hawthornesque.  It  is  perverse, 


THE  NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD    205 

but  a  not  unnatural  offshoot  of  Puritan  meditation, 
and  reminds  one  of  the  grotesques  sometimes  found 
on  cathedral  churches.  It  contains,  intellectually, 
the  same  sort  of  repugnance  to  the  idea  of  sin  that 
Hilda  shows  emotionally  in  her  sensitive  purity.  A 
brotherhood  of  sinners  is  surely  not,  necessarily,  the 
same  as  a  brotherhood  of  devils;  but,  without  dis 
cussing  the  philosophy  of  this  whim  or  fantasy  of 
conscience  on  Miriam's  part,  it  is  enough  to  mark 
by  it  the  depth  of  root  that  old  New  England 
thought  had  taken  in  this  Arcadian  soil  of  a  long- 
lost  Golden  Age.  The  Puritan  tone  is  noticeable  in 
more  than  one  phrase  and  sentiment,  but  in  no  one 
passage  is  the  genuine  moral  nativity  of  the  tale  so 
plain  as  in  this  theory  of  the  consubstantiality  of 
guilt.  It  would  be  worthy  of  a  capital  place  in  an 
cient  metaphysic  dogma.  Here  it  is  only  a  lurid 
thought  at  a  moment  of  intense  spiritual  strain;  but 
in  its  most  imaginative  and  least  theologic  form  it 
defines  Hawthorne's  essential  Puritanism  and  illus 
trates  ho\v  fundamental  such  thought  was  in  the 
workings  of  his  imagination. 

One  turns  happily  from  this  nightmare  of  a  fev 
ered  and  guilty  conscience  to  the  pleasant  idyl, 
where  Donatello  in  his  misery  turns  to  call  the  dear, 
woodland  companions  of  his  boyhood,  if,  perchance, 
they  will  know  his  changed  voice  : 

'  'I  used  to  make  many  strange  acquaintances ; 
for,  from  my  earliest  childhood,  I  was  familiar  with 


206  HAWTHORNE 

whatever  creatures  haunt  the  woods.  You  would 
have  laughed  to  see  the  friends  I  had  among  them ; 
yes,  among  the  wild,  nimble  things,  that  reckon  man 
their  deadliest  enemy !  How  it  was  first  taught  me, 
I  cannot  tell;  but  there  was  a  charm — a  voice,  a 
murmur,  a  kind  of  chant — by  which  I  called  the 
woodland  inhabitants,  the  furry  people,  and  the 
feathered  people,  in  a  language  that  they  seemed  to 
understand/ 

"  'I  have  heard  of  such  a  gift/  responded  the 
sculptor,  gravely,  'but  never  before  met  with  a  per 
son  endowed  with  it.  Pray,  try  the  charm ;  and  lest 
I  should  frighten  your  friends  away,  I  will  with 
draw  into  this  thicket,  and  merely  peep  at  them/ 

"  'I  doubt/  said  Donatello,  'whether  they  will  re 
member  my  voice  now.  It  changes,  you  know,  as 
the  boy  grows  towards  manhood/ 

"Nevertheless,  as  the  young  Count's  good-nature 
and  easy  persuasibility  were  among  his  best  charac 
teristics,  he  set  about  complying  with  Kenyon's  re 
quest.  The  latter,  in  his  concealment  among  the 
shrubberies,  heard  him  send  forth  a  sort  of  modu 
lated  breath,  wild,  rude,  yet  harmonious.  It  struck 
the  auditor  as  at  once  the  strangest  and  the  most 
natural  utterance  that  had  ever  reached  his  ears. 
Any  idle  boy,  it  should  seem,  singing  to  himself  and 
setting  his  wordless  song  to  no  other  or  more  defi 
nite  tune  than  the  play  of  his  own  pulses,  might  pro 
duce  a  sound  almost  identical  with  this;  and  yet,  it 
was  as  individual  as  a  murmur  of  the  breeze.  Dona- 


THE  NEW  ENGLANDER  ABROAD    20? 

tello  tried  it,  over  and  over  again,  with  many  breaks, 
at  first,  and  pauses  of  uncertainty;  then  with  more 
confidence,  and  a  fuller  swell,  like  a  wayfarer  grop 
ing  out  of  obscurity  into  the  light,  and  moving  with 
freer  footsteps  as  it  brightens  around  him. 

"Anon,  his  voice  appeared  to  fill  the  air,  yet  not 
with  an  obtrusive  clangor.  The  sound  was  of  a 
murmurous  character,  soft,  attractive,  persuasive, 
friendly.  The  sculptor  fancied  that  such  might 
have  been  the  original  voice  and  utterance  of  the 
natural  man,  before  the  sophistication  of  the  human 
intellect  formed  what  we  now  call  language.  In 
this  broad  dialect — broad  as  the  sympathies  of  na 
ture — the  human  brother  might  have  spoken  to  his 
inarticulate  brotherhood  that  prowl  the  woods,  or 
soar  upon  the  wing,  and  have  been  intelligible  to 
such  an  extent  as  to  win  their  confidence. 

"The  sound  had  its  pathos,  too.  At  some  of  its 
simple  cadences,  the  tears  came  quietly  into  Ken- 
yon's  eyes.  They  welled  up  slowly  from  his  heart, 
which  was  thrilling  with  an  emotion  more  delight 
ful  than  he  had  often  felt  before,  but  which  he  for 
bore  to  analyze,  lest,  if  he  seized  it,  it  should  at  once 
perish  in  his  grasp. 

"Donatello  paused  two  or  three  times,  and  seemed 
to  listen;  then,  recommencing,  he  poured  his  spirit 
and  life  more  earnestly  into  the  strain.  And,  finally, 
— or  else  the  sculptor's  hope  and  imagination  de 
ceived  him, — soft  treads  were  audible  upon  the 
fallen  leaves.  There  was  a  rustling  among  the 


208  HAWTHORNE 

shrubbery;  a  whirr  of  wings,  moreover,  that  hov 
ered  in  the  air.  It  may  have  been  all  an  illusion; 
but  Kenyon  fancied  that  he  could  distinguish  the 
stealthy,  cat-like  movement  of  some  small  forest 
citizen,  and  that  he  could  even  see  its  doubtful 
shadow,  if  not  really  its  substance.  But,  all  at  once, 
whatever  might  be  the  reason,  there  ensued  a  hur 
ried  rush  and  scamper  of  little  feet;  and  then  the 
sculptor  heard  a  wild,  sorrowful  cry,  and  through 
the  crevices  of  the  thicket  beheld  Donatello  fling 
himself  on  the  ground." 

This  is  a  true  glimpse  of  the  "early  world."  The 
tale  is  exquisitely  told.  The  pathos  of  it  is  as  natu 
ral  as  a  catch  in  the  throat.  But  the  skepticism  of 
Hawthorne  toward  his  own  imagination,  which  has 
often  been  commented  on  above,  is  obvious.  He 
describes  the  scene ;  he  creates  the  illusion ;  but,  like 
a  teller  of  stories  to  children,  he  can  not  refrain  from 
the  reminder  that  it  may  be  all  make-believe.  Is 
matter-of-fact  indeed  so  precious  in  art?  Yet,  for 
all  his  caution,  the  heart  rallies  to  its  own  creations, 
its  own  illusions,  it  may  be,  and  insists,  for  the  mo 
ment,  at  least,  on  the  truth  of  the  vision.  Dona- 
tello's  grief  that  he  can  not  call  the  squirrels,  and 
other  "nimble  creatures," — and  every  woodsman 
knows  that  there  is  a  call  which  brings  them  near 
and  friendly, — this  grief  is  a  fable  of  the  rift  that 
conscience  discloses  between  innocence  and  experi 
ence;  something  is  lost  with  the  passing  years  be- 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     209 

side  "the  splendor  in  the  grass"  and  "the  glory  in 
the  flower;"  and  it  is  this  inner  and  mystic  loss,  this 
bereavement,  as  it  were,  that  is  shadowed  forth  in 
Donatello's  cry.  Fanciful  as  the  scene  and  the  inci 
dent  may  seem  to  some,  in  its  essence  the  myth,  if 
myth  it  be,  rings  true  to  the  heart  of  all.  If  the 
faun  in  Donatello  received  his  death-wound  in  the 
murder  scene,  it  was  here  in  the  wood  that  he  died. 
Here  the  "early  world"  passed  out  of  Donatello's 
life,  as  it  passes  out  of  the  life  of  all  men  whom 
life  matures;  and  the  truth  is  well  enough  set  forth 
imaginatively  by  this  simple  and  beautiful  Arcadian 
fable  of  Donatello's  call. 

The  visible  charm  and  romantic  emotion — what 
one  may  call  the  literary  fascination — of  these  three 
passages,  is  obvious.  Hawthorne  was  at  the  height 
of  his  power  of  representation  and  grace  of  descrip 
tion  when  he  penned  them.  The  golden  and  mel 
low  glow,  as  of  an  American  autumn,  that  pervades 
Irving' s  ripe  literary  years  and  often  transforms 
Hawthorne's  style  into  a  sort  of  dreamland  of  the 
imagination,  rests  like  a  haze  on  Monte  Beni  and  its 
shadowy  valleys  leading  down  to  Rome.  The  per 
fection  of  it,  as  the  woof  of  imaginative  feeling  and 
verbal  art,  is  undeniable;  and  the  flash  of  Italian 
landscapes  and  scenes  completes  the  spell.  But, 
ethically,  to  keep  attention  fixed  on  the  moral  tale 
involved  in  this  picturesque  web  of  material  fact, 
artistic  tradition  and  spiritual  speculation,  the  final 
impression  is  of  mystery.  Mystery  is,  indeed,  a  per- 


210  HAWTHORNE 

manent  element  in  Hawthorne's  mood  of  thought, 
and  sometimes  it  degenerates  into  the  merely  uncer 
tain,  the  unexplained  or  the  fanciful.  This  lower 
form  of  mystery  occurs  in  the  romance  repeatedly; 
it  is  plain  enough  in  the  untold  story  of  Miriam  and 
the  model  and  in  the  untold  after-life  of  Miriam 
and  Donatello,  neither  of  which  seems  logically  con 
nected  with  the  plot,  though  linked  with  it  tempo 
rarily;  there  are  always  things  left  thus  in  the 
penumbra  of  life  or  stories.  But  the  mystery,  which 
is  impressed  on  the  mind,  in  the  moral  conduct  of 
the  tale  in  its  essence,  is  the  age-old  mystery  of  evil 
in  the  world  and  its  contact,  by  chance  or  fate, 
with  innocent  lives,  together  with  its  results  in  the 
destinies  and  the  nature  of  its  victims.  This  was  a 
problem  of  native  attraction  to  the  New  England 
romancer;  he  had  changed  his  climate,  but  not  his 
mind.  He  assumed  the  state  of  innocence  or  of  na 
ture,  which  he  made  identical,  and  he  brought  that 
world  in  contact  with  evil  in  the  form  of  a  crime 
which  he  interpreted  as  sin ;  and  he  undertook  to  tell 
the  reactions  that  took  place  in  the  persons  con 
cerned.  He  dealt  with  an  artificial  world,  in  both 
instances,  and  dreamed  his  dream  with  such  aid  as 
speculation  could  give  him.  Perhaps  there  was 
more  poetic  fantasy  than  moral  reality  in  his  medi 
tation;  but,  however  that  may  be,  it  is  not  for  any 
light  he  throws  on  the  divine  mystery  of  the  soul's 
life  that  one  reads  the  tale. 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that,  for  all  its  adven- 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD    211 

tures  into  the  spiritual  realm,  the  novel  has  made 
its  way  mostly,  certainly  in  later  years,  as  a  tourist's 
companion,  or  better  kind  of  guide-book,  to  give 
feeling  and  perspective  to  the  ramblings  of  foreign 
ers  in  the  hill  country  of  Italy  and  to  make  "a  Ro 
man  holiday."  Its  vivid  presentation  of  the  scene 
and  background,  as  a  mere  book  of  travel,  with  its 
myriad  almost  photographic  touches,  recommend  it 
to  the  eye  that  looks  on  Italy  for  the  first  time,  and 
with  a  sight  half  of  memory  of  what  has  been  told 
and  expectation  of  what  shall  be,  as  well  as  of  ac 
tuality.  It  fulfills  the  early  dream  and  prepares  for 
the  greater  vision.  Hawthorne  was  so  uncommonly 
good  a  sight-seer  and  narrator,  and  also  a  bit  of  a 
visionary,  that  his  description  of  Italian  scenes, 
where  he  always  had  subjects  equal  to  his  powers, 
is  a  masterpiece  of  realism  with  the  unseen  light  in 
it.  His  artistic  predilections  and  associations,  also, 
which  brought  him,  both  temperamentally  and  so 
cially,  into  sympathy  writh  paintings  and  statues 
and  gardens,  however  amateurish  and  initiatory  his 
comments  and  enthusiasms  may  seem  to  a  more 
sophisticated  generation,  enabled  him  to  give  an  ap 
pearance  of  wholeness  to  his  rendering  of  Italian 
life,  as  a  tourist  sees  it.  He  included  in  his  imagi 
native  survey  of  the  land  an  uncommon  amount  and 
variety  of  mere  information, — sights,  objects,  as 
pects,  customs  and  persons,  the  medley  of  the  wrorld 
of  foreign  travel ;  and  this  gives  another  interest  to 
the  tale,  quite  separate  from  that  of  the  spiritual 


212  HAWTHORNE 

story  involved.  What  history  is  to  the  ordinary 
historical  novel,  that  travel  is  to  this  romance.  In 
particular,  the  talk,  if  it  may  be  so  designated,  about 
the  Roman  sights,  the  Church  of  the  Capuchins,  the 
portrait  of  the  Cenci,  the  painting  of  St.  Michael, 
and  the  confessional  and  the  carnival,  is  interesting, 
wholly  apart  from  Donatello  and  the  pitiful  history 
of  his  inner  life  and  tragic  fortune.  In  so  pictur 
esque  a  world,  with  such  manifold  and  fascinating 
vistas  and  horizons  of  time,  myth  and  natural 
beauty,  it  seems  to  matter  little  what  takes  place; 
the  scene  more  than  the  action  absorbs  attention; 
it  is  Rome,  not  Donatello,  that  holds  the  eye. 

This  over-balance  of  the  surroundings  and  atmos 
phere  of  the  story,  in  comparison  with  its  human 
narrative,  is  evident.  The  tale  is  read  for  its  acci 
dents,  so  to  speak,  rather  than  for  its  substance. 
Yet,  without  regard  to  the  spiritual  history  of  Dona 
tello,  the  characters  are  more  interesting,  person 
ally,  than  is  common  with  Hawthorne,  sharper  and 
more  massive.  Ordinarily,  there  is  something  thin 
and  fragile,  unsubstantial,  in  the  sense  his  characters 
give  of  themselves, — a  water-color  effect,  as  it  were; 
Miriam,  Donatello,  Hilda, — and,  somewhat  re 
moved,  Kenyon — seem  like  a  marble  group.  Per 
haps,  the  name — The  Marble  Faun — is  partly  re 
sponsible  for  this  impression, — the  name  and  the 
thing;  but,  besides,  there  is  a  certain  immobility  in 
the  figures, — they  seem  always  posed.  Even,  when 
most  in  action,  as  in  the  sylvan  dance  and  the  un- 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     213 

easy  movement  after  the  murder,  they  recall  the 
motion  of  bas-reliefs  more  than  the  freedom  of  life. 
The  continuous  artistic  effect,  as  of  posing,  results 
from  the  fewness  of  the  characters,  which  are  al 
ways  identical  and  in  simple  relations,  and  their 
singleness  is  only  the  more  emphasized,  when  they 
are  seen  against  larger  and  nameless  groups,  as  in 
the  sylvan  dance,  with  the  strollers  of  the  murder- 
scene,  or  in  the  square  at  Perugia  beneath  the  bronze 
pontiff's  benediction. 

There  is  great  definiteness  of  outline  to  the  four 
characters;  and  yet,  it  is  singular  how  little  one 
knows  about  them.  Miriam  is  like  a  visitor  from 
another  world,  without  origin  or  destiny.  She  is, 
from  her  entrance,  infinitely  more  mature  than 
Donatello  and  she  continues  to  give  this  impression 
of  a  being  out  of  his  sphere,  even  to  the  end,  by 
virtue  of  her  experience;  their  partnership  in  crime 
does  not  really  unite  them  as  equal  mates.  She  was, 
from  the  first,  a  woman,  and  he  was  a  boy,  to  whom 
experience  came  as  a  catastrophe  and  with  illumina 
tion,  no  doubt ;  but  he  remained  a  boy  at  heart,  how 
ever  saddened  and  wise,  with  the  dark  mortal  knowl 
edge.  It  is  a  trait  of  Hawthorne's  work  in  creation 
that  his  characters  show  little  substantial  change  in 
nature,  however  much  their  situations  alter.  Are 
not  the  characters  of  The  Scarlet  Letter  essen 
tially  the  same  at  the  close  as  at  the  beginning  of 
the  tale?  Their  experience  has  passed  over  them, 
and  changed  the  circumstances,  but  are  they  changed 


214  HAWTHORNE 

in  any  distinguishable  way,  except  that  they  are 
older  in  the  lore  of  life?  Miriam  belongs  to  a  spe 
cific  and  peculiar  type  of  womanhood,  that  Haw 
thorne  repeatedly  tried  to  present, — the  same  type 
as  Hester  and  Zenobia.  A  richer  nature,  a  more 
massive  physique,  that  something  "oriental,"  as  it  is 
described,  characterized  these  women  in  general,  and 
set  them  over  against  the  normal  New  England  type, 
delicate,  fragile,  paler,  which  Hilda,  Priscilla,  and 
the  unnamed  frail  woman  of  the  crowd  in  the  Puri 
tan  romance  reflected.  The  line  between  the  two 
types  is  almost  racial,  so  definite  is  the  contrast  of 
opposites;  or,  if  not  quite  opposites,  then  aliens. 

It  is  singular  to  observe  that  the  stronger,  richer, 
more  generous  physical  type  seems  the  more  human. 
Hilda,  though  set  forth  as  the  very  apotheosis  of  the 
virginal,  there  in  the  tower  with  her  doves,  and  again 
in  her  instinctive  revolt  at  the  mere  knowledge  of 
evil,  and  her  refusal  of  it,  in  the  incident  of  the  con 
fessional,  where  she  freed  herself  from  the  pollution 
and  dismay  that  the  knowledge  had  been  to  her, — 
Hilda,  with  all  her  sensitiveness  to  the  shock  within 
her  own  nature,  shows  a  hardness  of  virtue  that  re 
minds  the  reader  of  the  "unco'  guid."  Would  she,  un 
der  any  circumstances,  have  been  capable  of  seeing 
Donatello  writh  Miriam's  eyes?  As  little  as  of  win 
ning  his  love,  one  thinks.  The  two  women  are  poles 
apart.  Whence  came  Hawthorne's  breadth  of  view, 
and  especially  this  continually  reappearing  woman 
of  the  stronger  and  richer,  and,  one  must  add,  more 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER   ABROAD     215 

unrestrained  nature?  Knowledge  of  the  realities  of 
life  was  with  them,  more  than  with  their  paler  sis 
ters,  he  seems  to  say.  In  The  Marble  Faun,  at 
least,  true  knowledge  was  with  Miriam  and  Dona- 
tello,  however  much  the  conventional  counsel  of 
Kenyon,  at  his  leave-taking  to  go  to  the  rescue  of 
Hilda,  might  look  like  wisdom,  and,  indeed,  an  ele 
vated  form  of  it.  Kenyon,  indeed,  is  colorless,  a 
mere  mouthpiece  to  fill  out  the  play. 

Hawthorne's  success,  as  is  readily  seen,  is  usually 
greater  with  his  female  than  with  his  male  charac 
ters.  Neither  Arther  Dimmesdale  nor  Roger  Chil- 
lingworth  is  really  interesting,  and  toward  Hol- 
lings\vorth  one  feels  social  repugnance.  Donatello 
is  a  bright  exception  to  the  somewhat  heavy  villains 
of  the  Hawthornesque  stage.  He  is,  in  fact,  a  lov 
able  creature,  and  fitted  to  his  Arcadian  environ 
ment  like  a  beautiful  animal  to  the  woods  and  pas 
tures,  but  his  fascination  is  wholly  human;  kind, 
gentle,  joyous,  a  devoted  lover  with  the  light  spirits 
of  youth,  it  was  ill  fortune  for  him  when  the  shad 
ows  of  Rome  and  of  life  fell  across  his  native  sun 
shine.  His  crime  is  so  swiftly  accomplished,  so 
vaguely  motived,  so  unreflecting,  that  it  does  not 
alienate  him,  in  the  least,  from  the  natural  affection 
which  he  has  already  elicited  from  the  reader.  It 
is  hard  to  believe  that  it  is  a  real  crime  that  has  been 
seen,  and  not  a  mere  nightmare  of  fancy*  The 
crime  is  not  sufficiently  rooted  in  evil  to  have  the 
effect  attributed  to  it,  one  thinks,  in  remorse  and  in 


216  HAWTHORNE 

revelation  of  the  spiritual  nature. .  It  is  here  that  the 
abstract  element  in  Hawthorne's  imagined  situation 
fails  to  carry  conviction.  It  may  be  admitted  in 
theory  that  out  of  experience  of  sin  a  soul  may 
come  to  self -consciousness,  and  in  that  sense  be  born, 
but  it  is  not  plain  that  Donatello's  wild  act  was  of 
a  sort  to  serve  as  a  true  type  of  sin;  and  in  abstract 
art  conviction  of  the  universality  of  the  instance 
given  must  be  perfect.  Casuistry  has  too  large  a 
field  in  this  case.  Still  less  satisfactory  is  the  ac 
count  of  his  remorse,  repentance  and  absolution,  if 
such  there  were.  The  history  of  the  crime  and  its 
spiritual  consequences  is  too  fragmentary,  too 
slightly  made  out  and  defined,  to  make  the  "trans 
formation"  of  Donatello  much  more  than  a  form  of 
words.  He  remains,  in  his  alleged  transformation, 
much  the  same  in  nature  as  before,  so  far  as  visible 
signs  go,  except  it  is  a  lovable  nature  seen  in  shadow 
instead  of  in  light.  He  has  not  forfeited  good-will. 
One  is  sorry  for  what  has  befallen  him,  but  with 
the  pity  that  one  feels  for  suffering  that  is  not  un 
derstood  by  its  victim,  and  with  sympathy  that 
abides  in  the  memory.  This  is  not  the  story  of  a 
new  fall  of  man,  nor  anything  like  it;  nor  is  it  a 
new  gospel  of  that  fall;  it  is  a  tale,  on  the  contrary, 
not  very  well  made  out,  so  far  as  it  lies  in  the  spir 
itual  realm  of  the  history  of  the  soul's  birth  and  pil 
grimage. 

But  the  case  is  far  different  with  the  earthly  scene 
and  circumstances  of  the  story.    One  almost  calls  it 


THE   NEW   ENGLANDER   ABROAD     217 

a  myth,  because  it  has  so  lovely  an  investiture  for 
its  moral  doctrines,  and  lies  so  near,  on  the  one  hand, 
to  the  tradition  of  the  Golden  Age,  and,  on  the 
other,  to  Roman  classical  remains.  It  has  been 
much  used  in  Italy  by  the  transient  resident  or  trav 
eler,  because  of  its  sympathetic  and  contemplative 
description  of  places  and  things.  It  rivals  Child e 
Harold,  which  is  now  old-fashioned,  for  such  use, 
and  it  is  much  more  practical.  Corinne  and  Stend 
hal  are  quite  out  of  date.  The  Marble  Faun  is 
a  work  of  the  same  utility  as  these  for  a  more  mod 
ern  and  differently  bred  traveler  than  the  gentlemen 
of  a  century  ago.  It  contains  an  introduction  to  the 
visible  land ;  and  it  prepares  the  mind,  as  well  as  the 
eye,  for  the  scene.  Its  function  has  been  even  wider 
and  perhaps  of  greater  value  as  an  element  in  Amer 
ican  culture,  to  the  untraveled,  inasmuch  as  it  has 
spread  before  them  a  vision  of  "delectable  moun 
tains"  they  may  never  traverse,  and  embodied  for 
them  the  Italian  dream.  Hawthorne  had  both  the 
seeing  and  the  dreaming  eye,  and  both  are  needful 
for  the  sight  of  Italy.  Through  his  pellucid  narra 
tive  there  runs  the  mirage,  charm  mixes  with  real 
ity  on  his  page,  there  is  the  same  uncertainty 
whether  this  is  life  or  dream,  that  his  work  not  in 
frequently  gives ;  and  this  fits  the  Italian  scene.  The 
landscape  and  persons  of  his  story,  as  he  builds  them 
up  imaginatively,  have  something  of  the  character 
of  an  emanation  rather  than  of  real  substance,  that 
something  diaphanous  characteristic  of  the  imagi- 


218  HAWTHORNE 

nary  in  New  England  at  that  time,  not  quite  phan 
tasmal  and  not  quite  flesh  and  blood.  The  imagi 
nary  Italian  scene,  both  in  its  figures  and  its  look, 
in  Hawthorne's  tale,  is,  really,  mythical,  to  describe 
it  most  appropriately;  and  it  is  in  the  atmosphere  of 
that  world  that  he  presents  the  realities  of  the  land, 
its  squares  and  churches  and  crowds,  its  pictures 
and  statues.  So  admirably  has  he  thrown  this  air 
about  all  he  touches  that  scarce  any  romance  seems 
so  timeless.  Donatello,  by  his  very  conception,  puts 
time  to  flight,  and  the  Italy  against  which  his  figure 
is  relieved  is  eternal  Italy.  It  is  this  Italy,  where 
myths  seem  real,  that  Hawthorne  brought  home  to 
his  countrymen's  apprehension. 

It  is  obvious  how  near  this  romance  was,  by  its 
realism,  to  the  actual  scene,  and,  by  its  idealism,  to 
art,  and  thus  doubly  to  Italy.  It  had  the  easy  par 
ticularism  of  the  one  and  the  universality  of  the 
other.  In  both  ways  it  succeeded,  as  a  book  of 
travel  and  as  an  idealization  of  an  idyllic  world,  pre 
human  in  spirit,  evolving  into  the  sad  world  of  uni 
versal  experience,  the  human  world;  only,  in  this 
second  phase,  the  Puritanic  elements  in  the  trans 
formation — elements  of  hereditary  thought  in  Haw 
thorne — fail  to  carry  conviction  of  their  reality.  To 
speak  in  the  language  of  the  schools,  there  is  no 
true  "katharsis,"  that  is,  no  manifest  purification 
and  elimination  of  the  sorrowful  evil  that  had  be 
fallen,  no  absolution,  but  the  characters  are  left 
struggling  in  the  coil  that  had  involved  them,  with 


THE  NEW   ENGLANDER  ABROAD     219 

a  rather  sternly  expressed  charge  that  they  endure 
their  fate  in  a  penitential  mood.  The  Puritan  solu 
tion  does  not  end  the  tragedy;  that  is  the  fault.  It 
follows  naturally,  for  the  human  heart  is  sound, 
that  the  preferred  parts  of  the  story  are  the  travel 
scenes  and  the  myth  of  Donatello  in  the  days  of  his 
golden  youth, — the  Italian  parts.  The  tragedy  it 
self  belongs  to  the  thought  and  temper  of  a  sterner 
and  darker  land, — that  old  New  England,  out  of 
which  Hawthorne's  genius  was  originally  taken,  like 
some  great  gray  boulder  of  that  soil,  which,  despite 
its  weight  of  wood-flowers  and  ferns  and  occasional 
sun-gleams  under  the  pines,  shadows  the  hillside. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CONCLUSION 

IT  was  Hawthorne's  pleasant  but  somewhat  futile 
habit  to  wind  up  his  novels  with  a  short  chapter, 
in  which,  before  dismissing  his  characters  to  their 
unrecorded  fates,  he  vaguely  indicated  their  various 
fortunes  in  the  great  world.  It  would  be  similarly 
pleasant,  but  equally  futile,  no  doubt,  for  the  critic 
to  attempt  to  gather  the  wandering  strands  of  his 
comment  on  such  a  miscellany  as  Hawthorne's 
works  constitute,  and  so  set  forth  some  outline 
sketch,  at  least,  of  as  eminent  a  genius  as  American 
annals  contain,  before  bidding  him  farewell. 
A  genius,  however,  like  his  books,  has  fates  of  his 
own  that  no  criticism  can  much  deflect,  even  for  the 
period  of  current  taste.  It  is  to  be  suspected  that, 
even  at  the  present  time,  Hawthorne  has  ceased  to 
be  judged  by  the  standards  of  contemporary  popu 
lar  taste  and  is  most  valued  for  that  appeal  his  writ 
ings  in  general  make  to  a  communal  regard  and  af 
fection  for  the  things,  the  ways  and  the  people  of 
the  old  time.  He  embodies  the  age  he  lived  in  and 
many  memories  of  the  "times  before,"  and  this  is 
his  hold — to  a  certain  extent  a  sentimental  hold — on 
the  generation  that  succeeded  him,  and  is  now  pass 
ing.  On  the  other  hand,  he  is  hardly  yet  come  to  be 

220 


CONCLUSION  221 

judged  by  the  canons  of  pure  taste  and  timeless  art 
which  finally  decide  a  nation's  classics ;  in  any  case, 
when  established,  they  appeal  to  but  a  few  in  each 
age,  though  they  are  long-lived;  true  fame  is  the 
breath  of  long-past  time.  It  is  plain,  however,  that 
he  \vas  one  of  the  greater  writers  of  his  own  age; 
and  it  is  as  a  writer  of  his  age,  a  contemporary 
writer,  that  he  has  been  viewed  in  this  volume. 

The  contemporaneous  element  in  his  writings, 
both  in  their  subject-matter  and  their  feeling,  is  so 
large  as  almost  to  place  him,  at  first  sight,  among 
provincial  authors,  whose  fame  lies  in  the  success 
with  \vhich  they  describe  and  present  the  life  of 
their  own  locality.  Each  section  of  the  older  parts 
of  the  country  had  its  native  romancer  to  celebrate 
the  scenes  and  historic  episodes  of  the  soil;  and, 
with  the  course  of  time,  the  newer  parts  have  given 
rise  to  fiction  or  poetry  with  the  tang  of  their  own 
earth.  The  Creoles,  the  Argonauts,  the  Hoosiers, 
have  each  a  historian  of  manners,  if  not  a  Homer. 
The  strongly  marked  and  picturesque  characteris 
tics  of  the  early  settlements  over  all  the  continent 
are  thus  preserved  in  literary  beginnings.  A  litera 
ture,  close  to  the  soil,  whose  pride  it  is  to  be  strictly 
limited  to  "the  business  and  bosoms"  of  its  own 
people,  is  often  highly  extolled;  in  late  years  it  has 
been  a  mere  incident  of  nationalist  movements;  and, 
if  those  who  maintain  in  literature  the  separatist 
principle  of  nationality  are  right,  then  the  provin 
cialism  that  Hawthorne,  at  first  sight,  displays  is 


222  HAWTHORNE 

only  a  badge  of  genius  and  proclaims  him  a  true 
master.  Boston  has  often  been  compared,  as  re 
spects  its  literary  status,  to  Edinburgh.  Under  the 
theory  which  has  been  mentioned,  New  England  lit 
erature  would  be,  in  regard  to  English,  a  colonial 
product,  of  marked  vigor  and  interesting  traits,  but 
set  off  by  itself  and  to  be  appreciated  mainly  by  its 
own  folk. 

The  first  impression  given  by  Hawthorne's  work 

f*8  1    •  i        i  r   •  111 

in  general  is,  no  doubt,  of  its  strong  local  character. 
It  not  only  presents  the  local  scene,  but  it  smacks  of 
the  soil  in  thought  and  sentiment.  Its  New  Eng- 
landism  is  a  matter,  too,  of  the  history  it  enshrines, 
and  the  idealism  it  illustrates.  The  whole  literature 
of  the  northeastern  coast,  however,  in  respect  to  that 
of  the  rest  of  the  country,  gains  distinction  by  its 
comparative  remoteness  in  time,  and  especially  be 
cause,  in  consequence  of  its  early  date,  it  neighbored 
the  main  stream  of  English  letters,  and  drew  from 
that  great  tradition;  the  mellow  accent  of  the 
eighteenth  century  fell  golden  from  its  lips  in  the 
new  world.  It  was  not  merely  graces  of  verbal  style 
that  it  remembered  and  absorbed;  there  was  a  style 
of  thought,  as  well  as  of  words,  in  Goldsmith  and  his 
comrades  and  elders  that  had  not  yet  found  oblivion 
when  the  first  native  authors  and  their  immediate 
successors  began  to  write.  It  was  this  afterglow 
of  a  great  classical  age  in  the  colonial  sky  which 
most  distinguished  the  acknowledged  American 
masters  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  nineteenth  century 


vV 

¥ 


CONCLUSION  223 

from  later  pioneers  of  literature  in  the  country  at 
large.  Hawthorne  was  one  of  those  who  profited 
most  by  the  olden  tradition,  and  most  continued  it. 
He  had  from  it  his  literary  descent  and  breeding. 
The  old  English  culture  which  he  absorbed  in  lit 
erary  tradition,  however  remote  from  its  old  home, 
added  something  to  the  local  character  of  his  work, 
which  differentiated  it  and  gave  it  larger  citizenship 
in  the  world.  The  presence  of  this  is  most  obvious, 
perhaps,  in  his  style. 

Hawthorne's  style  has  been  much  commented  on. 
It  is  not  capable  of  any  simple  analysis,  for  it  in 
volves  much  more  than  the  mere  graces  of  expres 
sion,  and,  indeed,  flows  rather  from  that  style  of 
thought  \vhich  has  just-been  mentioned  as  an  inward 
thing  above  expression.^  This  isXQp_jQore,  perhaps, 
than  to  say,  as  of  old,  "the  style  is  the- man."  Such 
style  as  Hawthorne's  has  nothing  rhetorical  about  it ; 
it  is  a  grace  of  character.  What  is  dwelt  on  here 
more  particularly,  however,  is  that,  if  by  his  birth 
he  shared  something  communal  with  his  society,  and 
was  by  virtue  of  that  a  provincial  author,  he  also  by 
his  genius  shared  in  the  great  tradition  of  English 
literature, — that  tradition  of  serious  character, 
sweet  speech  and  a  certain  elevation  of  tone,  that 
harmonized  well  with  his  Puritan  blood  and  made 
him  a  great  master  of  the  English  tongue.  This 
literary  breeding  was,  indeed,  the  common  culture 
of  his  time ;  but  he  appropriated  it  with  a  sympathetic 
genius  of  such  power  as  to  distinguish  his  work 


224  HAWTHORNE 

above  others  for  those  excellencies  which  were  most 
valued  in  that  culture.  The  conspicuous  quality  of 
his  style  is  a  wonderful  purity  of  tone.  It  is  the 
dominance  of  this,  together  with  the  constant  pres 
ence  of  the  imaginative  world,  that  establishes  his 
characteristic  atmosphere ;  no  American  writer  works 
so  habitually  in  the  artistic  element.  His  page  is  bro 
ken  by  an  occasional  freak  of  humor  or  fancy;  it  is 
full  of  kindly  feeling,  of  a  certain  neighborliness  of 
mind;  for  all  its  gloom,  sunshine  lies  warm  on  it, 
and  friendliness  pervades  it.  But,  apart  from  any 
human  quality,  the  style  is  the  still  and  pellucid  at 
mosphere  through  which  his  scenes  are  beheld,  as 
with  all  the  masters  of  English. 

Heredity  was  strong  in  Hawthorne,  as  it  is  gen 
erally  observed  to  be  in  men  of  literary  genius;  but 
it  would  be  misleading  to  think  of  his  inheritance  as 
narrowly  local,  a  matter  of  village  things;  it  was 
also  broadly  intellectual,  the  patrimony  of  his  peo 
ple.  He  drew  his  subject  and  his  spirit  from  the 
land — and,  indeed,  one  may  say,  from  the  province 
— of  his  birth;  but  his  art — the  real  home  of  his 
genius — was  more  universal.  In  like  fashion,  too, 
the  conception  of  his  realism,  a  primary  trait  in  his 
earlier  work  and  a  distinguished  feature  of  his 
novels,  should  be  enlarged.  With  that  keen  obser 
vation,  habitual  with  him  from  the  beginning,  he 
saw  the  object,  whatever  it  was,  clearly,  and  repre 
sented  exactly  even  its  minute  and  transitory  as 
pects;  but  he  saw  it,  as  he  saw  history  also,  en- 


CONCLUSION  225 

swathed  in  sentiment.  The  case  is  somewhat  like 
that  of  realism  in  the  pastoral,  where  facts  are  seen 
plainly  and  often  with  a  minuteness  that  seems  tri 
fling,  but  through  a  medium  of  artistic  feeling.  It  is 
realism,  as  it  were,  at  one  remove.  So  Hawthorne 
saw  the  native  landscape — rocks  and  woods  and  sea 
and  the  things  of  the  farm  and  road — realistically 
indeed,  but  with  a  certain  home- feeling,  instinctive 
and  unconscious  in  him,  yet  characteristic  of  his 
people  and  his  race, — saw  it  through  the  sentiment 
of  home ;  the  habit,  which  was  to  him  as  his  natural 
breath,  has,  to  a  later  generation,  something  almost 
reminiscent  in  it;  and  the  home-sentiment,  which  it 
originally  embodied,  becomes,  especially  to  those 
who  have  long  left  the  land,  the  sentiment  for  the 
past.  One  can  hardly  overestimate  this  element  in 
Hawthorne's  fascination. 

The  manner  of  his  approach  to  local  history, 
whether  in  its  actual  or  imaginative  form,  is  similar. 
It  is  not  the  mere  historical  fact  that  he  presents,  as 
an  annalist  might  do,  or  any  writer  interested  only 
in  the  specific  truth ;  but  he  shows  it,  as  he  sees  it  him 
self,  through  the  sentiment  of  patriotism.  This  is 
conspicuous  in  some  of  the  colonial  tales.  The 
home-sentiment  under  some  form  of  local  pride  is 
pervasive  in  his  wrork.  It  is  as  fundamental  in  the 
novels,  though  under  a  different  phase,  as  in  the  leg 
ends  of  the  early  champions  of  New  England  liberty. 
It  is  through  the  strength  of  this  element  in  his  fic 
tion,  especially,  that  he  came  to  be  the  imaginative 


226  HAWTHORNE 

historian  of  the  original  New  England  folk  and  the 
Puritanism  in  which  their  communal  life  was  con 
centrated.  In  his  novels  he  set  forth  the  spirit  of  his 
people,  his  "little  clan" ;  no  one  but  a  son  of  the  soil 
could  have  done  it  as  he  did  it,  viewing  imagina 
tively  their  historic  life,  just  as  he  looked  on  their 
familiar  fields  and  pastures,  through  a  sentiment 
born  of  his  nativity.  It  was  this  sentiment  which 
gave  antique  charm  to  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,  religious  intensity  to  The  Scarlet  Letter 
and  moral  meaning  to  The  Marble  Faun.  Under 
lying  each  of  these  novels  was  a  communal  inher 
itance,  a  historic  unity  of  instinct,  feeling  and  expe 
rience.  They  were  not  mere  inventions  of  an  idle 
day,  but  in  them  Hawthorne  gave  voice  to  the  great 
est  realities  his  people  had  found.  What  had  begun 
with  him  as  local  history  ended  as  ideal  romance; 
but  the  basis  and  origin  of  all  alike  lay  in  his  orig 
inal  attachment  to  his  own  soil,  a  profound  New 
England  feeling,  an  instinct,  he  himself  calls  it,  an 
other  form,  in  fact,  of  the  sentiment  of  home,  but 
with  power  upon  a  whole  people  instead  of  an  indi 
vidual.  It  was  the  fulness  with  which  he  expressed 
and  obeyed  this  sentiment,  both  in  his  choice  of  sub 
ject  and  his  method  of  treatment,  that  made  him  the 
most  representative  writer  of  New  England.  He 
showed  it  forth,  not  only  as  a  land,  but  as  a  people. 
Such  modifications  by  the  sentiment  of  home  and 
country  as  give  emotional  value  to  landscape  and 
history  are  initiatory  stages  to  the  pure  illusions  of 


CONCLUSION  227 

art ;  they  are  a  part  of  the  process  of  making  an  art 
ist.  The  bare  fact  becomes  malleable  and  changes 
in  significance.  An  emotional  treatment  of  land 
scape,  an  imaginative  and  especially  a  dramatic 
treatment  of  history  are  common,  and  it  is  under 
stood  that  they  recreate  their  object.  It  has  been 
advised,  indeed,  on  the  highest  authority  of  the 
schools,  that  history  should  be  so  adapted  to  the 
imagination  on  the  score  of  the  economy  of  inven 
tion  thus  obtained,  both  in  conception  and  feeling.  It 
was  Shakespeare's  method  in  many  of  his  plays.  It 
is  usually  essential  to  success,  however,  that  in  a 
drama  history  should  be  very  ductile, — indeed,  pref 
erably  a  myth.  The  advantage  to  Hawthorne  in 
using  Puritanism  as  a  background  is  obvious,  in  that 
he  easily  secured  attention.  The  same  gain  is  gen 
erally  aimed  at  in  the  historical  novel  of  any  period. 
It  belongs  to  the  historical  novel  that  it  should  have 
solid  fact  for  its  substance  and  attract  the  reader 
by  this  circumstance  as  well  as  for  other  rea 
sons.  It  may  well  be  doubted,  however,  in  view  of 
the  career  of  that  type  of  novel  in  the  last  century, 
whether  history  is,  in  any  high  degree,  a  preserva 
tive  element  in  literature.  Even  in  the  capital  case 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  unrivaled  master  of  his 
torical  fiction,  the  permanent  hold  of  his  books  on 
the  world,  outside  Scotland,  is  matter  of  specula 
tion.  The  historical  substance  is  local  and  temporal, 
—essentially  mortal ;  it  is  a  weight  that  the  imagina 
tive  and  purely  literary  qualities  of  the  book  must 


228  HAWTHORNE 

carry  in  the  race  with  time.  Such  novels  will  re 
tain  their  interest  so  long  as  the  history  they  em 
body  is  interesting  either  to  the  nation  described  or 
to  the  world;  later,  in  proportion  as  they  are  exact 
renderings  of  the  customs  and  atmosphere  of  the 
times  they  represent,  they  will  be  consulted  and  read 
mainly  by  persons  of  an  antiquarian  habit.  Puritan 
ism,  the  historical  element  in  Hawrthorne's  work, 
will  long  preserve  it  in  his  own  land,  as  being  a  past 
phase  of  a  land  proud  and  reminiscent  of  its  past; 
but  for  preservation  in  the  larger  world,  his  work 
must  depend  on  something  more  than  its  historical 
appeal. 

To  turn  again  to  the  case  of  pastoral  poetry  and 
its  treatment  of  landscape  and  human  life,  it  sees 
the  real,  as  was  said  above,  at  one  remove,  as  it 
were,  through  a  special  atmosphere,  as  Hawthorne 
saw  his  native  New  England,  whether  land  or  peo 
ple,  through  a  sentiment.  The  pastoral,  to  put  it 
briefly,  sees  the  world  through  the  universal  ele 
ments  of  beauty  and  of  love  with  which  it  sur 
rounds  and  fills  the  scene.  What  it  sees  is,  there 
fore,  for  the  eyes  of  all  the  world,  beauty  and  love 
being  universal  principles.  Hawthorne,  as  his 
genius  matured,  seized  on  the  universal  moral  prin 
ciple,  and  saw  human  life  and  destiny  in  the  world 
through  that.  His  Puritan  origin  led  him  to  mark 
mainly  the  shadows  in  the  scene, — that  is,  the  op 
eration  of  evil  rather  than  good;  this  accounts  for 
the  predominant  impression  of  gloom  one  receives 


CONCLUSION  229 

from  his  work,  though  in  fact  there  is  abundant  sun 
shine  in  it.  The  main  hues,  however,  are  tragic, 
pessimistic,  hopeless.  In  so  far  as  evil  and  its  prob 
lems  are  a  universal  aspect  of  life,  his  work  makes 
a  universal  appeal.  He  thus  exceeds  his  province 
by  virtue  of  his  moral  subject ;  but  he  treats  his  sub 
ject  with  genius,  and  it  is  not  the  subject  but  the 
genius  that  makes  him  great.  He  treated  it  under 
the  pure  illusions  of  art. 

The  type  of  pure  illusion  in  imaginative  art  is  the 
Shakespearean  ideal  drama.  Here  reality,  in  the 
sense  of  the  local  and  temporal,  is  refined  away ;  the 
scene  involves  no  special  time  or  place  or  persons. 
It  is  a  great  feat  for  the  imagination  to  spare  such 
aid.  Imagination  was  Hawthorne's  prime  faculty; 
but  it  freed  its  wings  slowly  for  a  long  flight.  The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables  is  always  near  to  Sa 
lem;  but  The  Scarlet  Letter  is  far  less  provincial 
than  it  seems,  and  The  Marble  Faun  at  times  seems 
to  forget  its  New  England  origin.  The  Scarlet 
Letter  is  not  only  an  episode  of  Puritanism,  it  is 
universal  tragedy;  and  The  Marble  Faun  is  half 
a  pastoral,  and  all  in  an  ideal  land  of  its  own.  The 
quality  of  Haw-thorne's  imagination  is  hardly  ap 
preciated.  He  was  a  master  of  pure  illusion,  and 
held  a  magician's  wand  that  commanded  the  regions 
"out  of  space,  out  of  time,"  with  uncommon  power. 
No  other  American  foot  has  entered  the  charmed 
circle  where  Donatello  appeared.  Indeed,  as  has 
been  indicated,  Hawthorne  could  scarcely  believe 


230  HAWTHORNE 

his  own  magic.  Again  and  again  he  questions  the 
workings  of  his  own  imagination,  as  if  he  were  pos 
sessed  by  a  questioning  spirit,  a  Mephistopheles  of 
the  modern  mind.  "Did  the  scarlet  letter  burn  in 
the  sky?"  is  a  typical  query;  but,  believe  the  portent 
or  not,  the  dreaming  faculty — the  creative  instinct 
having  its  will — went  on,  and  again  with  the  wiz 
ard's  curse,  and  again  with  Donatello  in  the  wood. 
Genius,  like  love,  "finds  out  its  way."  Hawthorne 
approached  art  through  those  universal  principles 
that  underlie  it — characteristically,  the  moral  prin 
ciple, — whose  issue  is  the  tragic ;  but  his  imagination 
was  also  master  of  gentler  spells. 

In  the  work  of  genius  of  so  high  a  quality  and  so 
pure  an  action,  it  is  natural  to  observe  more  closely 
its  particular  operation  in  its  several  tasks,  in  those 
points  of  execution  commonly  examined  in  the  case 
of  great  genius.  There  is  generally  more  of  growth 
than  of  deliberate  intention  in  such  works.  Plots, 
in  creation,  it  is  to  be  suspected,  are  apt  to  find  their 
own  climaxes ;  but  it  is  interesting  to  see  where  they 
occur  and  to  notice  their  effect,  both  in  the  action 
and  on  the  author.  The  Scarlet  Letter  reaches  its 
climax  in  the  apparition  of  the  letter  in  the  sky,  if 
it  may  be  so  described ;  in  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables  the  point  where  the  story  turns  is  the  inci 
dent  of  the  judge's  death,  and  in  The  Marble  Faun 
the  critical  event  is  the  murder.  In  each  case 
the  tragic  reversal  occurs  at  the  place  mentioned,  in 
the  emblazonment  in  the  sky  of  the  minister's  se- 


CONCLUSION  231 

cret  sin,  in  the  fulfillment  of  the  ancestral  curse  in 
its  last  instance,  and  in  Donatello's  change  of  nature. 
There  is  a  sub-plot,  also,  in  the  plan  for  escape  in 
the  first,  and  in  the  story  of  Alice  and  the  myth  of 
the  nymph  in  the  other  two  cases;  but  it  is  feeble 
and  negligible,  the  plan  being  abortive  and  the  two 
brief  legends  mere  reduplications  of  the  main  idea. 
The  climax,  or  reversal,  is  followed  by  an  explana 
tory  incident,  emphasizing  what  has  occurred,  in  the 
public  confession  of  the  minister  and  in  Donatello's 
grief  in  the  wood,  when  the  wild  creatures  do  not 
answer  to  his  call;  and  the  flight  of  the  brother  and 
sister  from  the  old  house  is,  essentially,  the  first  step 
in  the  dissolution  of  the  curse  and  the  freeing  of 
the  plot.  It  is  noticeable  that,  in  all  these  cases,  the 
climax  with  its  single  pendant  incident  is  the  virtual 
end  of  the  main  story;  after  it  occurs  the  later  fates 
of  Hawthorne's  characters  do  not  interest  him;  this 
is  true  even  in  Donatello's  case,  for  he  ceases  to  be 
prominent  after  the  scene  in  the  wood,  and,  in  fact, 
drops  out  of  the  tale,  except  as  a  flitting  figure. 
This,  in  the  main,  is  because  Hawthorne  was  inter 
ested  in  the  idea  and  not  in  the  persons  of  the 
particular  tale.  The  quality  of  human  sympathy, 
however,  is  strongly  evident  in  the  romance  of  old 
Salem,  and  what  may  be  called  creative  sympathy — 
the  sympathy  of  an  author  for  his  own  creations — is 
manifest  especially  in  the  Roman  tale. 

It  is  plain  that  Hawthorne's  interest  did  not  lie  in 
the  logical  development  of  a  single  action,  the  true 


232  HAWTHORNE 

strength  of  plot.  It  was  not  dramatic  interest  ex 
cept  incidentally;  primarily,  it  was  psychological, 
— an  interest,  not  in  action,  but  in  states  of  mind, 
and,  particularly,  the  recoil  of  action  on  the  mind. 
This  is  normally  a  state  of  suffering,  and  a  basis  of 
tragic  emotion.  It  is  a  fascinating  field  for  the 
psychologist  with  a  dramatic  instinct.  It  lends  itself 
more  readily  to  scenes,  phases,  indirect  expression, 
repetition  and  meditation  than  the  straightforward 
evolution  of  a  single  action  would  allow;  and,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  Hawthorne  does  not  so  much  develop 
an  action  as  illustrate  an  idea.  His  method  in  doing 
this  is  most  characteristically  described  as  mosaic- 
work.  He  gathers  together  his  materials  from 
various  quarters  and  combines  them  into  a  har 
monious  and  brilliant  composite  that  makes  his  ro 
mance  a  succession  of  scenes  only  loosely  connected. 
In  a  novel  this  is  not  so  injurious  as  it  would  be  in 
a  drama ;  for  the  end  of  a  dramatist  is  to  portray  an 
action,  but  a  novelist  has  many  ends.  Hawthorne's 
purpose  was  to  portray  human  nature  under  various 
aspects, — mainly  of  suffering;  and  he  set  it  forth, 
not  primarily  through  the  acts,  but  through  the  men 
tal  moods  of  his  characters.  But,  when  all  allowance 
has  been  made  for  the  psychological  interest  and 
eclectic  method  of  Hawthorne,  close  analysis  un 
doubtedly  leaves  the  conviction  that  his  work  is 
structurally  weak  in  its  greater  examples. 

The  impression  of  some  lack  of  structural  vigor 
in  Hawthorne's  genius  is  confirmed,  if  one  looks  at 


CONCLUSION  233 

the  history  of  his  artistic  method.  His  early  use  of 
the  physical  object  as  a  symbol  has  been  sufficiently 
described.  It  served  him  well,  and  its  development 
in  his  practise  is  interesting;  but  he  exhausted  it  in 
The  Scarlet  Letter,  and  in  The  Marble  Faun 
he  was  obliged  to  break  it  up,  so  to  speak,  and  dis 
tribute  its  function  among  several  objects.  Symbol 
ism  of  this  sort  properly  issues  in  mysticism  as  a 
habit  of  thought;  but  Hawthorne  was  not  a  mystic. 
On  the  contrary,  he  shared  the  temperament  of  his 
age  of  reform  and  was  skeptical  in  his  mental  mood. 
The  miscellaneous  matter  and  eclectic  habit  of  his 
imagination  are  best  illustrated  by  the  group  of  his 
unfinished  posthumous  tales,  where  he  had  not  yet 
coordinated  and  harmonized  the  various  elements 
into  one  narrative.  It  would  seem  that  his  long 
practise  in  the  short  story  had  so  habituated  him  to 
its  restrictions  and  its  opportunities  that  he  did  not 
fully  gain  the  larger  freedom  of  the  longer  form ;  his 
romances  tend  to  be  a  series  of  scenic  tableaux,  each 
singly  impressive,  and  in  them  he  is  in  other  ways 
frequently  reminiscent  of  his  early  manner.  In 
other  words,  he  never  developed  an  artistic  method 
so  appropriate  to  the  romance  as  the  symbolism  of 
the  physical  image  was  to  the  brief  tale  of  imagina 
tion. 

But  despite  what  critical  deductions  may  be  made 
on  the  score  of  structure  and  method  as  applied  in 
the  novels,  Hawthorne's  conspicuous  excellencies 
a.re  richly  illustrated  in  their  progress,  and  charac- 


234  HAWTHORNE 

terize  the  longer  works  more  brilliantly  than  they  do 
the  tales  where  they  appear  on  a  smaller  scale.  De 
signs  on  a  small  scale,  indeed,  favored  the  qualities 
of  his  genius  in  some  ways ;  but  these  brief  and  con 
densed  scenes  were  more  effective  when  grouped 
than  when  taken  singly.  The  vividness  and  vigor, 
the  harmony  of  the  elements,  the  exquisite  finish, 
are  characteristic  of  the  patient  artist  trained  in  de 
tail, — in  just  that  elaboration  that  a  limited  surface 
requires.  What  has  been  described,  in  his  early 
work,  as  a  taste  for  theatrical  action,  the  set  scene, 
which  he  derived  from  Scott,  remained  with  him 
throughout.  A  writer  with  such  a  discipline  and 
taste,  developed  and  fixed  by  long  practise  in  the 
short  story,  naturally  falls  into  an  agglomerative 
method  of  construction,  when  he  attempts  a  greater 
task.  The  virtues  of  his  school,  however,  remain 
with  him.  Hawthorne's  hand  lost  none  of  its  cun 
ning,  in  the  passage  from  the  tale  to  the  romance. 
He  owns  the  same  brilliant  effects  of  gloom  and  sun 
shine,  of  mystery,  fantasy  and  myth,  but  now  they 
are  massed.  This  is  the  characteristic  difference 
between  his  earlier  and  later  manhood,  with  the 
addition  in  his  full  maturity  of  a  greater  depth  in 
meditation  and  a  fuller  illusion  in  his  visionary 
power. 

It  is  this  illusion,  the  last  triumph  of  imagination, 
which  most  characterizes  and  crowns  Hawthorne's 
genius.  It  is  the  air  that  is  the  breath  of  ideal  crea 
tions  and  spreads  over  the  landscape  of  all  works  of 


CONCLUSION  235 

imaginative  genius  with  a  scenic  effect,  as  in  a  pic 
ture  or  a  theater,  that  mocks  reality,  so  more  es 
sentially  real  does  it  seem  than  fact.  Poetic  illusion 
is  its  climax;  Shakespearean  illusion  is  its  dramatic 
form;  but  it  always  emanates  from  the  ideal  and 
fills  its  world.  Hawthorne's  works  are  full  of  it; 
and  this  is  best  indicated  by  the  emphasis  which  has 
been  constantly  placed  here  on  the  artistic  quality  in 
his  genius.  This  is  what  gives  him  his  charm,  as  his 
moral  quality  gives  him  his  substance.  At  the  end 
these  three  traits  stand  out,  characterizing  him :  he 
was  a  New  Englander,  representative  of  the  land 
and  the  historic  people ;  he  was  an  artist,  who  filled 
his  somewhat  abstract  world  \vith  a  magic  of  real 
ity,  while  he  wrought  with  exquisite  detail  in  ideal 
elements;  he  was  a  moralist  who  made  his  art  the 
vehicle  of  thought  upon  the  profoundest  mysteries 
of  human  fate.  In  the  first  phase  he  is  dear  to  his 
own  people ;  but  it  is  by  the  last  two  that  he  makes  a 
universal  appeal. 


THE  END 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Alice  Pynchcon,  story  of:  shows  imaginative  tension,  103;  a 
sub-plot  in  House  of  Seven  Gables,  231. 

American  Note-books,  see  Note-books. 

Artist  of  the  Beautiful:  fusion  of  the  physical  image  with  men 
tal  idea  without  intervention  of  human  person,  78-79; 
extract,  79-89;  marvelous  mechanical  toy  illustrates  au 
thor's  interest  in  the  fine  arts,  105;  comparison  with 
Scarlet  Letter,  143. 


; 


Birthmark:  physical  union  of  image  with  person  involved,  as 
well  as  fusion  of  the  physical  image  with  mental  idea, 
78;  comparison  with  Scarlet  Letter,  143. 

Blithedale  Romance:  contemporaneity  of,  20,  32,  42,  65;  Eliot's 
pulpit,  symbolizes  nature,  22;  extract  from,  22-31;  dis 
plays  Hawthorne  practically  untouched  by  moral  feel 
ings  of  his  time,  91-93. 

oston:  ''Frog  Pond"  on  Boston  Common,  16-17;  "Parker's," 
17-20;  Boston  Custom  House,  "darksome  dungeon,"  63; 
Province  House,  63 ;  Boston  Athenaeum  visits,  105 ; 
compared  in  respect  to  literary  status  with  Edinburgh, 
222. 

Brook  Farm :  connection  with  Blithedale  Romance,  21,  91 ; 
Hawthorne's  discontentment  with  practical  life  there,  62. 

Browning  formula,  compared  with  Hawthorne's  interest  in 
the  soul,  95. 

Channing,  Ellery,  Hawthorne's  intimacy  with,  134. 

Childe  Harold,  descriptions  compared  with  those  of  Marble 

Faun,  217. 

Chillingworth,  Roger,  167,  215. 
Clifford,  98,  120,  124,  125,  129. 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  fantasy  of,  171. 
Concord,  Mecca  of  New  England  intellect,  137. 
Corinne,  descriptions  compared  with  Marble  Faun,  217. 

Dimmesdale,  Arthur,  215. 

Donatella,  16,  193,  212,  213,  215,  229,  230,  231. 

Drowne's  Wooden  Image,  69-70;  105. 

Edwards,  Jonathan:  moral  heredity  distilled,  36;  intellectual 
subtlety,  107. 

Emerson,  R.  W. :  Snow  Storm  and  Snow-Flakes,  1 ;  at  Con 
cord,  13;  compared  with  Hawthorne,  33,  137;  intellec 
tual  subtlety,  107. 

239 


240  INDEX 


Endicott  and  the  Red  Cross,  66. 

Footprints  on  the  Seashore,  extracts,  50-52,  52-55. 

Fourierism,  91. 

Fuller,  Margaret,  at  Concord,  13. 

Goodman,  Brown,  68. 

Gray  Champion:  66,  72;  compared  with.  Artist  of  the  Beautiful, 

89. 
Gray's  Elegy,  graveyard  mood,  61. 

Haunted  Mind:  56;  extract,  56-60. 

Hawthorne,  N. :  artistic  instinct,  63-65,  90-91,  104-106,  136,  179, 
192-4;  contemporaneity,  1-3,  3-5,  20-33,  34.  42-43,  60-66, 
91,  93,  99,  103,  117-120,  132-134,  140-141,  177-8,  121-122; 
economy  of  his  art,  100-103,  139,  182;  imagination,  67-71, 
90-99,  169,  171-174,  195,  208,  229,  234;  moralist,  36-37, 
41-42,  55-56,  76,  89-90,  94-95,  106-108,  137-139.  176,  181, 
205,  209-10,  218,  228;  observer,  6-20,  40,  43-45,  46,  98, 
169, 224-225 ;  style,  223 ;  success  greater  with  female  than 
male  characters,  215 ;  use  of  physical  image,  74-76,  77-79, 
90-91,  141-144,  145,  147,  150-151,  157-159,  165-168,  184-185. 

Hepsibah,  107,  117,  120,  124,  125,  129. 

Hilda,  212,  214. 

H oiling sw or th,  21. 

House  of  Seven  Gables:  local  flavor  of,  42,  98,  226,  229;  New 
England  tradition  given  imaginative  form  in,  96;  story 
of  a  family,  97-99;  note-book,  the  seed-plot,  for  scene  of 
the  hens,  and  character  of  Uncle  Venncr,  99;  the  tale 
is  threefold,  story  of  old  Maulc,  story  of  Alice,  story  of 
Clifford  and  his  group,  99-100 ;  greater  kinship  between 
Hawthorne  and  this  story  than  any  other  of  his  books, 
103-104;  use  of  the  "portrait,"  105;  Puritan  idea  of 
inexorable  penalty  of  sin  in  inherited  curse,  107-109; 
extracts  from,  109-117,  120-124,  125-129,  130-132;  com 
parison  with  Marble  Faun,  180;  climax  of  story,  230. 

Irving,  Washington :  compared  as  early  American  tourist,  with 
Hawthorne,  43,  179;  style  compared,  61. 

Judd,  Sylvester,  novel  "Margaret"  38. 
Kenyan,  181,  184,  212,  215. 

Lady  Eleanor's  Mantle,  relation  of  physical  image  and  mental 
idea,  77. 

Longfellow,  H.  W. :  "My  Lost  Youth"  stanza  from,  3 ;  belle- 
lettrist,  33 ;  "long  thoughts,"  35 ;  cosmopolite  compared 
with  Hawthorne,  43;  treatment  of  local  tradition,  93,  137. 


INDEX  241 

Lowell,  J.  R. :  cosmopolite  compared  with  Hawthorne,  43 ;  con 
temporaneity  of,  175. 

Macbeth:  "air-drawn  dagger"  and  flaming  letter  "A"  in  the 
sky,  165  ;  knocking  at  the  gate  and  "far  off  noise  of  sing 
ing  and  laughter,"  in  Marble  Faun,  194. 

Marble  Faun:  characters  of.  180-181;  extracts  from,  186-192, 
195-204,  205-208;  local  New  England  feeling  in  the 
moral  meaning  of,  226;  imaginative  quality  of,  229; 
climax  of,  230 ;  sub-plot  in  plan  for  escape,  231 ;  sym 
bolism  in,  233. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  general  life  of  Theseus'  court 
touched  as  lightly  as  communal  life  of  New  England  in 
Scarlet  Letter,  140. 

Minister's  Veil,  physical  image  and  mental  idea,  75. 

Miriam,  193,  212,  213,  214,  215. 

Note-books:  American,  extracts,  August  10,  1842,  9-12 ;  Oc 
tober  9.  1841,  15-16;  May  7,  1850,  17-20;  English,  ex 
tract,  September  8,  1855,  16-17. 

Old  Esther  Dudle\,  67. 
Old  Manse.  13. 
Old  Moodie,  99. 

Pearl,  147,  148.  150,  151.  158,  172,  174. 

Phcebe,  119,  125,  129,  132. 

Poe,  E.  A.:  master  of  fantasy,  173;  ingenuity  of  construction 

and  development  of  theme,  173. 
Priscilla,  21.  214. 
Prvnne,  Hester,  141,  142,  144,  145,  148,  150,  151,  157,  158,  170, 

174,  193. 

Rappacini's  Daughter,  blend  of  physical  image  with  person  and 
fusion  with  mental  idea,  78,  143. 

Salem:  worthies  of  Salem  Custom  House,  5;  birthplace,  7; 
early  local  sketches,  7;  chamber  at,  32,  43,  62;  Salem 
Custom  House,  63,  92;  gabled  house  in  old  Salem,  101, 
103 ;  Salem  interest  in  "Flaxman's  Designs,"  108 ;  pro 
vincial  life  of  Salem  in  House  of  Seven  Gables,  117-120; 
"old  Salem,"  Hawthorne's  connection  with  it,  133-135. 

Scarlet  Letter:  local  flavor  of.  42,  1 39-140,  175.  177,  178 ;  first 
concept  of,  138;  letter  "A,"  climax  of  Hawthorne's  use 
of  physical  image  to  express  mental  idea,  141-144.  147- 
148.  150-151,  157-158,  165-167;  extracts,  144-145,  145-147, 
148-150,  151-157,  159-165,  168-169,  170;  fantasy  in,  171- 
1/5. 


242  INDEX 


Scott,  Walter  Sir  :  Scott's  Presbyterians,  60 ;  influence  on  Haw 
thorne,  62,  66,  98,  234 ;  Scott's  "saving  common-sense," 
135;  historical  novel,  227. 

Shakesperean  illusion,  235. 

Sights  from  a  Steeple,  extracts,  45,  99. 

Snow-Flakes,  1-2. 

Sweet  Alice  Vane,  67. 

Tales  of  the  Province  House,  67. 

Tanglewood  Tales,  71. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  early  American  tourist,  179. 

Thnnatopsis,  graveyard  mood  of,  61. 

Thoreau,    H. :   at   Concord,    13 ;   compared   with   Hawthorne, 

33,  43. 
Tollgatherer's  Day,  extract,  46-49. 

Uncle  Parker,  4. 
Uncle  Venner,  99,  120. 

Very,  Jones,  poet  of  Salem,  38. 
Village  Uncle,  extracts,  3-4,  4-6. 

Westervelt,  21. 

Whittier,  J.  G. :  "Snow-Bound,"  1 ;  compared  with  Hawthorne, 

43 ;  scribe  of  local  tradition,  93. 
Wives  of  the  Dead,  69. 

Zenobia,  21,  214. 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CD31111D75 


7     V     ^V  ^  // 


UNIVERSITY  OF 


ORNIA  I  -BRARV 

^    '     i 


